Prey for the Wicked
by Aleeab4u
Summary: A vampire finds the true meaning of temptation, an innocent beauty with a siren's blood. Need and curiosity ignite endless possibility, but is she prey for the wicked or the answer to a prayer for salvation? When obsession has no reason and love knows no bounds, where do you draw the line? AU E/B Darkward Mature themes. Non-canon vampires. No sparkling, vegetarianism or venom.
1. Temptation

**A/****N** This story is AU/OOC. They are your Twilight vampires in name and some characteristics only. They are familiar, but altered to fit the purposes of the story. No venom, no sparkling, very little vegetarianism. Drop your preconceived notions, close your daughters Twilight book, and come play in the dark with the adults. ;-)

Rated M for a reason. All warnings apply.

Disclaimer - Characters and all references to the Twilight series belong to their creator/author Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended or implied. I'm humbled and thankful she allows us to play with her story, especially with Edward...le sigh.

Beta'd by Octoberland. NOTE: I spell like a Canadian because I'm, well, Canadian. Go figure, eh.

Huge special thanks go out to my fabulous pre-readers Popola and Ania who were probably wondering if I was ever going to post this one. Thanks for hanging in and for the amazing amount of help you both have been. xo

**Story based loosely on the song, Temptation by The Tea Party.**

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter one

Temptation

. . . . . .

_Driven by restrained desire_

_I want what I need..._

. . . . . .

He used to be a man.

Once upon a time in the Land of Nod, he reflects sourly, for all that seems like a dream to him now. His human memories are as vaporous and thin as the cigarette smoke drifting from the mouth of the doorman slash bouncer who shifts uneasily to the side to allow him entry into the dingy tavern. The human's mind scrambles to understand his sudden fear of the stranger before him, his uneasiness not quite overruling his ego. For a moment the fool even toys with the idea of denying him entrance, provoking a confrontation and therefore re-establishing his mental musings that he is a bad ass, afraid of no one.

In response to both the thought and the slight shift in the man's body weight, Edward raises his eyes. Eyes that used to be green - he does remember that much - and for a time topaz, though neither of those colours can be found now. Tonight his eyes are black. Black with his self imposed thirst and his impatience; empty windows to the soulless cavern his body has become. Rimmed in fading red, they are a glaring warning sign for anyone he comes in contact with.

_Danger._

The doorman and self professed bad ass blanches an unhealthy shade of white and narrowly avoids pissing himself as Edward's lip curls up in annoyance. Instinctual human fears kick in, and the man steps back away from the door, gesturing to it in sudden exuberant invitation, not caring in the least what he may be unleashing on the patrons inside. Only caring that Edward and his no longer green or topaz eyes turn their dark gaze, and even darker demeanour, elsewhere, _anywhere_, so long as it's not on him.

Smirking, Edward steps on the half smoked cigarette that has fallen from the male's suddenly nerveless fingers, snuffing out the glowing amber end. He grinds it to pulp and dust against the damp pavement, inhaling the man's fear as it flavours the air and ignites his thirst. He smiles once more, flashing teeth which gleam preternaturally white, before slipping through the now unbarred door. His boot heels thump in time with the staccato rhythm of the bouncer's racing heart.

Yes, Edward used to be a man, but as he steps over the threshold into the poorly lit interior, he's never been more aware of what he is now.

Sliding easily through the throng of bodies, half amused by the way they instinctively shuffle to create a path for him, he makes his way to a shadowed corner near the bar and into an empty booth. A tired looking cocktail waitress with a mind barely on her job approaches, and he asks for a beverage he won't drink. A necessary prop to soothe the herd, giving the illusion that he is one of them and therefore nothing really to fear.

How easily humans are fooled. How fiercely they cling to their naive belief that they rest solely upon the throne at the top of the food chain. He could easily disabuse them of their false notion. Strike down this entire room, starting with the waitress who places his drink down neatly on a cheap paper napkin. He would be finished with the others before her screams even filter through their consciousness.

The waitress moves away unharmed, tucking his generous tip into her pocket as Edward reclines against the aged upholstery. He isn't here to prove anyone wrong. He's here to lose himself in the thick, pulsing beat of live rock music. The driving thrum of bass, the sweet lick of guitar riffs, the melodic sounds of a throaty, baritone singer with rare perfect pitch. To drown out the incessant cacophony of mind noise that is the bane of his existence, his unrelenting cross to bear, his curse. For just one moment in his damned existence, he wishes to forget who and what he is.

For a while it works. Capable of hearing every subtle nuance of the music, relishing the old buildings acoustical attributes, Edward drifts in a sea of hard melody and sound, feeling the pound of drums and bass reverberate through the soles of his feet. The band is good, the singer better, and for a time even the human thoughts he can't quite keep out all center around the prowess of the musicians. This is as near to silence and bliss as he ever gets, and when it is stolen from him it feels like the equivalent of being doused in freezing water.

He sees her first. A shadow passing through his periphery of a slight young woman with mahogany hair and delicate features. The part of his mind not engaged with the music registers her, and then just as quickly disregards her. She is nothing more than another body, another human. Prey to most of his kind, nothing at all to him...

She pushes her hair away from her face, and the movement sends her essence drifting through the stale air. The universe shifts violently on its axis, hurtling him out of the music and straight into hell.

Her scent is every dark desire he's ever had wrapped up in one fragile package. He's up out of the booth and following her before he has time to process it all, moving in a way that red flags him as a predator and not caring a bit. Every sweet inhalation torches his throat, filling him with heat and hunger, and his weeks of deprivation are all for nothing. His desperate struggle to be more than what his nature demands _is for nothing_. The pathetic, scrabbling clutch at the distant memory of who he used to be dissolves, as though her aroma is acid and his resolve nothing more than buttery-soft human flesh.

He follows her out into the crowd, starved and primal, while she pushes and elbows her way past people who part for him without thought. Her blood beckons him closer as his mind plays out carnage and possibility. Slaughtering everyone around him is no longer the musing of a weary mind, but a cold reckoning, a certain fact.

To get to her he will gladly murder the masses.

She stops near the small stage, the vibration of noise through the massive speakers quivering the fine hairs on her arms and the succulent stalk of her pale neck. Her head falls back, and she begins to sway to the beat, a dancing siren calling him to his doom, to the shattering of his illusion that he is anything less than a monster. For years he has existed on the blood of men who prey on the weak, who take pleasure in inflicting pain and death on those as undeserving as the creature dancing in front of him. Tonight he is what he loathes, the very evil he's deluded himself into judging and condemning for the last century.

Not that it matters. His self hatred will not change anything for this human girl. He has fought temptation and won more times than even he can count, but this is not simple temptation, this is madness. Bloodlust so strong and pure it annihilates all else.

He watches her through the mind of the singer, snarling low in his throat as the man's thoughts show awakening interest. He likes the way she moves, losing herself to the rhythm he effortlessly coaxes from his instrument. He toys with the idea of having her body. Edward feels the snarl he's struggling to contain ripple louder from his throat, blending with the rising crescendo of the drums as the song sails into its climax.

The threat that another might lay claim to his meal accomplishes what lost sanity could not. Edward steps away from the girl, merging with the crowd. It changes nothing of her fate. He will have her, he will steal every last drop of blood from her body, but some reason is returning. This is not the place or the time. As he drifts farther away, her perfect scent waning in the crush of sweating bodies, he smiles darkly at his new thought.

She is a meal meant to be savoured. One taken slowly and in private, away from prying eyes and the necessity of closing them. He can be patient.

. . . . . .

From his perch on top a twenty story building a half block away from the bar, Edward can see everything. He assumes she'll leave through the front door, but with his vantage point he has a view of all exits. She won't be able to slip by him, and even if she did, he knows he would have no difficultly following her scent—to the ends of the earth if need be.

He crouches on the narrow ledge. The wind, stronger at this elevation, snaps his black jacket out behind him, though the rest of his form could be construed as a statue for all its perfect stillness. Nothing moves except his eyes, dark as the midnight sky above him.

He sees her the moment she steps outside, despite the growing throng of intoxicated mortals teeming from the building behind her. People linger on the sidewalks, spilling out into the road, waiting for Taxis and designated drivers to pull up and collect them. He attunes all his senses to her, blocking out the tangle of voices and thoughts coming from the concourse of revellers, searching for the singularity of her consciousness. Having never heard her speak or discerned anything about her beyond the rudimentary physical attributes he noted when she passed by him, he's not surprised when he cannot find it. He watches her come to a stop and turn to look down the street. He takes note of the landmarks her vision is encountering, attempting again to find her mind by searching for a match in the visual clues. It's another voice and mind, however, that catches his attention as he interprets a vision of the girl through their eyes.

"Bella! Bella, wait up a minute!"

Edward watches her turn on her heel toward the male approaching, and finds himself inhaling deeply as her hair fans out, hoping to catch the perfect, blinding scent of her again. The wind mocks him as it swirls in the opposite direction, stealing her scent and pressing his coat back against his body. He notes her name, seals it in his mind with all the other useless details he doesn't need, before growling low in his throat at the way a proprietary hand takes her arm.

"Hey, were you just gonna leave without saying a word?"

Edward's attention is so intent he finds himself leaning over the precarious edge as though he'll be able to hear clearer. Preposterous idea, his hearing is faultless even at this distance. Mere inches won't make the slightest difference, but his common sense is overruled by his eagerness to learn the cadence of her speech.

"Sorry, Mike. The crowd and all. It was crazy; I didn't know where you were."

Her voice surprises Edward. He struggles to equate the soft, musical intonation of words slipping past her bow shaped mouth with the call of the demon siren that lured him into near insanity with thirst. Surely the two should not be one and the same. He leans farther out, one hand gripping the concrete ledge beneath his feet so tightly it begins to crumble. Dust and small chunks of rubble rain down the side of the building, pattering against the wall and scraping past window panes. He loosens his hold marginally.

The man child's hand slips down the girl's arm, securing her wrist and tugging forcefully.

"Well, here I am. Come back inside for a bit. I'll introduce you to the band." The tone he uses on her is almost patronizing. Combined with the cajoling upturn of a smile, his mind shows Edward he's not used to being turned down. His irritation at the amount of effort he needs to expend with this girl pours from his thoughts.

When she tugs back against his hold and attempts to dig the flimsy soles of her shoes into the sidewalk to resist, his irritation grows. Edward watches the idiot's meaty fingers tightening over her tiny wrist. The girl makes a hissing sound of discomfort. Even from this distance, Edward can clearly read her body language and facial expression, both of which are demanding release from the wastrel's hold. The inner depths of her mind, however, continues to elude him, and his concentration is broken by the slight 'oh' of pain her lips form in reaction to the newest jerk on her arm.

In contrast, the thoughts of the boy are easily read, overlapping his spoken words and contradicting the seedy smile he means to placate her with. "Come on, Bella. Don't be a party pooper." _Or a fucking tease, showing up here, dressed in those tight jeans, trying to play it up like you're so much better than me._ "The night is young, we'll hang out, have a few more drinks." _As many as it takes to loosen your__ tight__ ass up._ "It'll be fun." _Not half as fun as it's going to be to see you on your knees, that prissy mouth around my..._

A disgusted hiss escapes Edward's lips as the boy's thoughts grow increasingly vile with the girl's continued rejection. In an instant, he lets go of the ledge and leaps down, falling the twenty stories to land behind a large redwood tree on silent feet. The shadows and his unnatural speed hide the movements that bring him up behind the girl before she finishes the sentence containing her current rebuttal.

"I'm tired, Mike. I'm going to head home. It's been a long...Ow, let go, Jesus..."

As she tugs back, Edward steps around her and clamps his hand in a vise-like grip over the male's wrist. It takes concentration and effort to resist tearing the hand off and presenting it like a gory souvenir. As it is, Edward's hold is calculated with only enough restraint to prevent permanent damage, not sharp, attention-grabbing pain. The greasy digits instantly release the pretty flesh beneath them, but Edward doesn't follow suit. Instead, he wrenches the boy's arm around so his palm faces upward, fingers twitching spasmodically as Edward adds pressure, transforming 'sharp and attention-grabbing' into full fledged agony. The squealing sound the idiot emits is utterly satisfying. Stepping closer, Edward uses his forward momentum to usher the boy backward three full steps, effectively placing his own body like a shield in front of the girl in an oddly protective move.

"I believe the young lady is not interested, _Michael_." Edward sneers the name. If it weren't for the lingering patrons of the bar surrounding him, he would happily grind the weak bones beneath his grip into splintered shards.

"Hey, ah, _ahhhhh_…shit. What the fuck, asshole...?"

Releasing him before the little cretin can turn his disjointed verbalization into any fouler discourse, Edward makes eye contact. Like the bouncer before him, Mike blanches and cradles his severely sprained wrist to his chest, self protective instincts kicking in. His face pales by several shades, and his bulging eyes reflect burgeoning fear.

"Whatever," he mumbles, his nerves making his voice shake even as he attempts bravado and nonchalance. "I'm going back inside, Bella. You do what the fuck you want." He shuffles away quickly, darting glances over his shoulder, worried that Edward will follow him, as well he should be. Even now with the perfect scent of his intended prey bombarding him, Edward's only thought is the desire to break the insolent little twerp.

A small hand touches his arm. The unaccustomed heat burns straight through the multiple layers of his coat and shirt to the skin beneath, startling him from his violent musings.

"Um...Thank you."

He turns to be confronted by large brown eyes full of life, framed by a delicate, heart-shaped face. Her expression at the moment conveys uncertainty tinged with gratitude. Inhaling her unique perfume delicately through his nostrils, he's surprised to find his thirst is outweighed by the stunning knowledge that her mind remains steadfastly silent to him. Combined with the continued warmth and weight of her hand, which has yet to move away from his arm, his curiosity at this enigmatic slip of a girl grows exponentially with the aching thirst that tingles in his palate. No mind has ever been immune to his gift.

She drops her hand, and Edward instantly misses the warmth. Still trying to delve beyond whatever obstruction her thoughts hide behind, it's a moment before he realizes his silence is doing what his mere presence should have. It's making her uncomfortable. It occurs to him that no human has ever willingly touched him before. The fact she not only did so, but lingered in the action, skitters through his fragmented thoughts, rich with a wealth of possibilities he can't yet define.

Colour in varying shades of pink flushes her complexion as it infuses with the blood his throat and body are screaming for. He watches her fidget, nervously rubbing her abused wrist.

"You're welcome." The words of his belated reply are accompanied by a rush of breath he knows is appealing to her kind. For the first time ever in his immortal existence, Edward enjoys the slightly dazed expression that clouds her eyes. Never before has he attempted to lure prey, always simply taking what he wanted, ending miserable lives in the same violent ways his victims were fond of perpetrating.

"Are you harmed?" he asks, dropping the tone of his voice several octaves in a way that adopts a seductive quality. Her eyelids flutter weakly, and he can hear the rich, liquid rush of blood through her veins accelerating. The sound is hypnotic. She swallows, and he watches her throat muscles contract in the loveliest way. Visions of his previous victims wash over him, their screams and terror soaked pleas playing an enticing background song to her soft reply.

"No. I'm fine, really."

The street has become a quieter place. Only a few people linger now, smoking the last of their cigarettes, grasping at dwindling threads of companionship, and Bella takes note. Her eyes move from him to them, then back again, and he wonders if increasing isolation will finally trigger the nervous reactions he's accustomed to.

Another taxi pulls to the curb close to where they stand, but she makes no move toward it. Instead, a young, newly matched couple tumbles inside, lips barely parting from one another in their alcohol induced lust.

Their carnal thoughts bombard Edward, mixing with the blood soaked memories still playing out in his mind. He finds a vision of Bella superimposed over the nameless pair, and it's her writhing in pleasure. Her delicate mouth opening in a purring moan that sounds like his name...

_Edward_.

"Are you waiting for a ride?" he asks, gesturing to the street and several idling cars waiting for vacancies at the curb.

"No. I live only a few blocks away." Her lack of self-preservation astounds him, chasing away the last of his inappropriate fantasy. First the touch, and now the open way she shares personal information. "I thought I'd walk home," she adds, and his opinion on her lack of self-preservation is relegated to the higher degree of death wish. He struggles to understand both her actions and this new realm of desire that has nothing at all to do with her blood.

"Perhaps I could hail you a cab?" He finds the offer breaches his mouth before he's fully thought it out. The strange protective instinct that kicked in when he placed himself between her and the unwanted grasp of her would-be suitor, conflicts with his true desire. She seems so fragile, and he suddenly realizes why he likes that his presence is not affecting her in the normal way. There is no hope that he can resist her temptation, but Edward does not want to take this life the way he always has before. No. He wants her quiet, calm. He wants to kiss the perfect flesh, lick the salt and sweetness from the place where he will drain her, feel her warmth and life thrumming in his powerful, yet restrained embrace.

She combs her fingers through her hair, sweeping it away from her forehead before allowing it to fall back in place. The movement entrances him with the imaginings of its cool texture wrapped around _his_ palms, twining around _his_ wrists...

"No, really, it's fine. Like I said, I just live a few blocks up that way." She flutters a hand to the north. Edward's eyes are drawn to the reddened mottles of discolouration on her wrist that will soon darken into bruises. He captures the hand mid-flight and lets his thumbs play over the growing heat where her injuries lie, tiny broken capillaries leaking her precious blood into the soft tissue under her skin. A sudden desire to suck on that flesh has him dangerously bringing her hand closer.

"Then perhaps I could walk you home. I'm headed in the same direction." He restrains his true wants and presses a chaste kiss to her knuckles instead, releasing her before she has enough time to register his cold, unnatural touch.

"You don't have to do that," she says, lovely new spots of colour gracing her cheeks.

Oh, but he does.

"It's late. I couldn't in good conscience allow you to walk alone. Please?" he adds, leaning in a little closer. "Allow me to accompany you?"

She blinks, soft mouth going slack for a moment before tightening in a small smile, her head tipping slightly to the side as she regards him. Again he waits for her instincts to warn her away, and again she fails to have any.

"All right," she agrees, her manner quiet and pleasing. He holds out his hand in the direction she indicated, and falls in at her side as she begins to walk.

"My name is Edward, by the way," he offers, swallowing past the burn in his throat, struggling to remember manners long since unused.

"Bella," she replies unnecessarily.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,...Bella." Her name sits odd on his tongue. He finds it lacking. Despite its literal translation of beautiful, it's too common, too banal. She is something more, something elegant and regal and rare…

"This is really nice of you. Do you make a habit out of walking strange women home after you save them from overbearing guys?"

Edward finds himself laughing lightly, something he hasn't done in longer than he cares to remember. "Rescuing damsels in distress is a tedious task," he teases, "but someone has to do it."

She smiles in response, shaking her head slightly. Once again she rubs at her chafed wrist. She stops suddenly in her tracks staring down at the expanse of flesh covering radius and ulna. Her expression reveals distress, gaze searching the ground around her, hand rooting up into her shirt sleeve.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"My bracelet. I've lost it, I guess. I had it earlier..."

It's a testament to how her scent distracted him that he cannot remember seeing jewellery on her, but he glances around the ground at her feet as though, like her, he believes it might magically appear. He sniffs covertly at the air, searching for the unique tang of precious metals that might accompany such a lost article, not surprised when he finds nothing beyond the usual detritus of dropped coins and aluminum cans. Even distracted he would have heard such an item fall to the ground.

She sighs. "I must have lost it in the club."

"Shall we return and see if we can find it?" It is the last thing he wants to do, yet the words are spoken before he can censure himself. Perhaps more of those manners he thought he's forgotten have survived within him after all. The offer certainly seems like the chivalrous thing to do. He'd think it funny traits instilled in him centuries ago still lurk in his psychological makeup if his thirst wasn't burning him alive.

"No, that's okay. It wasn't expensive." She shrugs and resumes walking, her hand still encircling the tender joint of her wrist.

"You'll need to put some ice on that when you get home. It's beginning to bruise."

She regards the skin carefully, her expression clouding slightly when she finds several fingerprint shaped markings. He feels a momentary qualm at bringing an uncomfortable experience back to the forefront of her thoughts, but his curiosity overrides the brief sentiment.

"Your...friend...was very persistent."

Her brow furrows, delicate nose crinkling with distaste. "Mike? I don't know if I'd call him a friend. We used to go to the same school. We work together sometimes, but we're not close."

"Ah, I see."

"Do you?" she asks. The tone of her voice suggests sarcasm. Edward attempts to study her facial expression for a clearer gauge, only to find himself distracted by the fascinating play of light over her cheekbones as she passes beneath a streetlamp. Her mind continues resisting every attempt to breach her inner thoughts, frustrating his ability to understand her feelings or motives. He wonders why he even wants to.

"Well," he replies, "it seems a common enough scene. A beautiful girl and a lonely, unworthy boy, wishing for her unwarranted affections."

Her turn to laugh, and the sound does strange things to him, bringing light to dark places.

"Mike is hardly a "lonely boy," trust me. And I'm far from beautiful."

Edward can smell her newest blush, and it makes him ache. His impatience is growing.

So as not to make her uncomfortable by staring, he fakes attention in the increasingly residential neighbourhood around them. The number of small shops and restaurants dwindle, gradually being replaced with clusters of single family homes sheltering slumbering residents.

"You don't see yourself clearly," he tells her. He speaks the platitude expected of any man, before realizing how true it is. She is beautiful and mysterious, and every step he takes with her shows him more and more the very depravity of his existence. She is a true innocent, naive and utterly delectable. Her warmth radiates from her skin and body in waves he can feel against his side. He wants to embrace her, to be a part of that warmth, if only for a moment. To feel her heart pound against his chest, an echoing reminder of who he used to be when his own heart beat with vigour and life.

She makes a sound of dissension at his comment, but doesn't preen or seek out compliments by further degrading herself. Instead, she switches topics easily, taking him from his thoughts and back to the world of reality. The world where he is not human and can never hope to feel such things again.

"So, Edward. What brings you to small town U.S.A?"

"Just passing through," he answers vaguely, true enough of an answer. It's what he does, never lingering in one place long. Impatience prickles anew as he catches her looking sideways at him, wide eyes regarding him with unguarded curiosity. His hand twitches with the desperate need to reach out and touch her. He finds himself lamenting all that he is not in a way he hasn't in decades.

She stops, and he's been so lost in his thoughts and desirous wants, the action surprises him.

"This is me," she tells him, shyly. Her teeth worry her bottom lip, reminding him of his more primal needs; the desire for blood and sex warring for dominion within. He wants her the way a man wants a woman, and the way a predator wants his prey, two needs intertwining until he can no longer tell which is the more powerful of the two.

He should leave, run now until the wind clears his mind and the dark enclosure of the forest frees him from this twisted dementia, but he knows he will not. Knows that she is as doomed as he.

As if she knows it too, she tips her head back and looks up at him, invitation in her eyes as she asks, "Would you like to come in for a drink? It'd be the least I could do to say thank you for helping me with Mike, and for walking me home."

Oh, silly, foolish girl. She makes it so very easy for him...

. . . . . .

* * *

A/N I hope you enjoyed reading this 1st chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're inclined to share them. To all of you getting ready to click those follow and/or favourite buttons, hugs and thanks in advance.

* Just a few interesting facts pertaining to details found in this chapter. - Perfect pitch, as mentioned when Edward reflects on the singer's voice, is the ability to flawlessly recreate a musical note without having heard it first. (Most need to hear the note on a tuner or equivalent and then must practice to recreate it.) True perfect pitch is rare. Jeff Martin, former front man of the Tea Party and singer of the song used here for inspiration, has perfect pitch. He also has a voice that makes me swoon...but that's another story. ;-)

Land of Nod (found in the opening lines of this chapter) comes from several places and has several meanings. The most popular is a biblical reference from Genesis pertaining to Cain using the Hebrew translation of nod, meaning to wander. In this context here, I'm using the more modern meaning found in stories like Gulliver's Travels by Johnathon Swift and children's poetry by Robert Louis Stevenson that pertain to sleep and dreaming. In other words, "once upon a time in the Land of Nod," is Edward relating the memory of his human years to a hazy, insubstantial dream.


	2. Goddan

A/N Warning - This chapter fully earns the M rating of this story and then some.

Chapter beta'd by Octoberland with special thanks to my pre-readers, Ania and Popola.

**Lyrics (italicized below chapter title) from Temptation, by The Tea Party

. . . . . .

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter 2

Goddan

. . . . . .

_Shaking as her sex takes hold_

_I've lost all control_

. . . . . .

Under the flickering light of a failing streetlamp, Edward steps closer to the prize he covets. The offer to join her in her house frees him from any further need to pretend to be a simple mortal man gallantly seeing her home. He allows the mannerisms he adopted to lure her into a false sense of security slide away, like he's shedding skin. He knows his eyes are darkening.

"Isabella." Her full name leaves his lips like a prayer, though what Edward prays for is nothing God would ever think to grant. The second he speaks, he feels the rightness of that name, the shaping of the syllables pleasing to his senses. It suits her in every way that Bella does not.

She blinks in reaction, perhaps confused, her pupils dilating when he leans in closer, cupping his palm around the heat of her cheek. He's no longer able to resist the warmth she so temptingly and foolishly offers him.

"So lovely," he whispers, lulling her, lulling himself as he guides her steps backwards. He takes her hand at the stairs to her small white house, leads her up them and through a door with a lock that needs no key beneath his dexterous touch. One sharp twist and flick of his wrist makes it snap with barely a hint of sound, and they're over the threshold, past the point of no return.

"So perfectly lovely," he tells her again as he closes the door behind him. She takes a step back and then another, her heart taking flight in her chest suddenly, as though she's beginning to understand the dangers of her actions. The sound calls to his dark nature, an invitation to take what he wants. He aches for her.

"Ho...How do you know my full name?" She's breathless, uncertain, and something else it takes him a moment to define. Aroused. Dear God she's aroused.

"Bella is a common derivative." he replies with a tone meant to soothe while he stalks her through the slightly cluttered confines of her small living room, matching each step of retreat with one of advance. "It is short for Isabella, is it not?"

She pauses then seems to accept his explanation, though she continues to regard him warily. "Yes, it is."

All around him he can see signs of her life. Pictures with family members that love her, friends who adore her, knickknacks and mementos of a past, a present, and a future not yet realized. One he's about to steal from her...

"A drink," she says, placing a hand above her breasts, as though to calm the nervous little heart skittering in her chest with the pressure of her palm. "I was going to get you a drink." She grasps at straws and human pretences for comfort and normalcy. "What would you like? I have..."

Edward's had enough of human pretences. He closes the gap of space she put between them. Her dull human senses are incapable of perceiving the movement, only his new placement, as though he vanished and reappeared directly in front of her. Again he cups her face, tempering his strength as he leans close and draws her scent deep into his atrophied lungs.

"Oh, Isabella, my sweet, innocent little lamb." Her heart races faster, and his cool fingers move down her face to her neck, drawn like a magnet to the thick, heavy artery that pulses her gorgeous blood through her veins. He can feel the steady pulse calling his name, velvet fluids offering him a drink more precious and pure than any he's ever known. He tries one last time to read her thoughts, but isn't at all disappointed when he cannot. Her silent mind will be an extra gift to him when he takes her life. After all, he's grown so tired of the pleading, whining, lamenting thoughts of his meals, so very tired of the weight of guilt that comes at the cost of merely surviving. To drink her will be divine, but to do so in unbroken silence will be the very essence of divinity.

Overlapping his thirst, however, is a growing awareness of the feel of her skin, a sensation he can't ignore no matter his starving body. Satin smooth heat draws his fingers lower to the hollow of a throat that seems sculpted of sun bleached ivory. Past collarbones coated in fire warmed porcelain. Over the soft swells that mark the beginning of lovely breasts begging to be caressed and worshipped. Her nipples tighten beneath the thin cotton blouse she wears, and Edward suddenly wants to drape her in the finest cashmere and silks; such a contradiction to the thirst that screams to be sated until the only draping necessary will be that of her funeral shroud. Yet a creature such as her deserves such finery, should be surrounded by it and have it lavished upon her daily.

If he was not a monster…

Little Isabella twitches in his arms, as though she too struggles with contradictory desires. Her body wants to flee, yet she wants to lean into him as well. A silk soaked moan slips past her parted lips, bathing him in her warm breath and more of her scent, heightened as it is by her mixed emotions. Desire and nervousness feed fuel to their respective fires until she begins to tremble beneath the onslaught.

Edward smiles as his cool grasp encircles her waist, dips down to curving hips and thighs where muscle and tendon shudder minutely with the torturous indecision of flight or fight. She licks ripe lips with a pink tongue, dampening them. His razor sharp eyes catch the rush of blood that plumps them, mimicking what he is certain is happening between her sweet legs. He draws harder at the air, a starving creature being offered a buffet of immeasurable delights.

Warm vanilla flesh and floral skin. Ambrosial, sanguine blood. The perfect earthy musk of a woman in heat, aching to be consumed by her lover, _by him_. Layering over all of it is the bittersweet siren call of her anxious heart, tempting the beast inside of him from its lair.

He wants to eat her alive in every way he can.

She swallows uncertainly as he leans closer, drawing in more and more of her tempting wares. "You don't want... a... a drink?" Her delightful stammers amuse him.

"Oh yes, little one. I very much desire a... _drink_." He cannot help the amused smile that curls his mouth as he lowers his head to hover his lips over hers. The taste of her breath ignites the flames that burn his dry, decimated throat, while her warm panting exhalations and the promise of the taste of her mouth hardens his cock. His dead body is alive with his unfulfilled needs.

She tries to pull back away from him, but the time for retreat has long since passed. In fact it never existed in the first place. His arms lock, holding her in place.

"I... what... would you like?"

Laughing low in his throat, he skims his mouth over hers, capturing the teasing trace of her flavour and sipping it like a starving man. "I want you, Isabella. I want to drink _you_." The softest and neediest of whimpers spills into his mouth, flavoured with her growing lust, his honesty misinterpreted as he knew it would be. He doesn't want her to run. Not now. He licks the corners of her pretty pout, moulding her lithe body to his. Her heat permeates every layer of useless fabric between them.

Edward draws in more air. Quickly he sorts through the scents of her small home, isolating the smell of cheap cotton sheets and synthetic fill pillows that mingle with her perfume and the staler aromas of sleep. They easily direct him to her bedroom. He lifts her off her feet, and once again abandoning human constraints, he carries her there, placing her at the foot of her bed in a room where only weakly filtered moonlight keeps the darkness at bay.

She's trembling; a tiny, delicate butterfly caught in a spiders web she has no hope of escaping. He drops his coat to the floor beneath him.

"Isabella," he groans into the kiss he hasn't fully broken, deepening it, stroking her mouth with his tongue and lips until her trembling turns needy. Any trace of her former uncertainty vanishes in the growing electricity sparking between them.

He is lost in the euphoria of her unlikely response.

She hasn't made her bed, and her scent lingers headily in the tangles of sheets and blankets as he lowers her onto them. Fingers nimble and quick feed buttons through holes, free hooks from their clasps, rasp a zipper down its rough ladder of metal teeth.

Soft pants and whimpers greet every brush of his fingers against her body while her sweat dampened palms clench in his hair, fluttering restlessly to the nape of his neck, his shoulders. Shaking fingers reach for the buttons on his shirt, her fear tamped down by the sexual urgings of her body. Her hesitant, innocence laced movements make Edward groan as he drags his teeth over her succulent little throat, jaws and teeth aching to bite, to consume. She arches the cradle of her hips and rubs against him, adding fuel to the fires ravaging his state of mind. The urge to drink her changes quickly to thoughts of earthier pleasures. He wants to taste her everywhere, fill his empty cavernous body with everything she has to give. Bury his dark, cold being in her lusciously vibrant heat.

He senses she is not a complete innocent. Not untouched or virginal, and yet he also recognizes this level of passion, this raw, fierce hunger, is as new to her as it is to him. She is rapidly enslaved by the feeling and by him.

"Edward..." Isabella breathes his name around a sigh. Her shaking hands have managed to partially bare his chest, and she spreads her fingers over his skin. The electric feel of her touch sears him, reaches his mind and envelops him in a new need, one just as equally potent. He wants her pleasure. He wants for one moment to forget that he is not a man, that he is not worthy of what he takes, that he is a dark creature who is only suited to give pain and reap death. He wants life and love, if only for now, if only for this second.

His selfishness knows no bounds, but he's long past caring.

Rolling to his back, he draws her fragile form over him, wanting to be draped in her delicious scent and warmth. Nothing in heaven or hell will stop him from consuming this woman whole, but he will give while he takes.

For now...

The remnants of her clothing slip through his fingers and fall to the floor beside the bed. Her body is sublime, all small, soft curves and subtle concaves, tender skin and fragrant delicacy. She kisses him with growing hunger, her hot damp mouth devouring him in greedy little nips and soft licks. He feels surrounded, the silence of her mind a haven as he learns to read her body the way a mortal man would—by touch and reaction and the reward of erotic female moans.

He rolls again, needing to explore her secret places and turn soft sighs into needy pleas. His cooler touch brings goose bumps to her skin, though she only pushes closer, gloriously oblivious to his oddness.

"Isabella," he groans loudly. "I want to consume you." The words are a growl, a threat, a dark, passion laced promise, perhaps even a warning. "I am _going_ to consume you."

"Yes, I want you to. Do it. Take me," she answers, panting, one of her hands fisting around the material of his shirt sleeve, twisting. She hardly needs to speak such words. If he sought permission, she's already giving it in the way her hips arch upwards as his lips move down her neck to her chest.

Edward knows she doesn't understand what she asks for, but it's too late for regrets—hers or his. Her tender little breasts fill his hands, rosebud nipples tightening beneath his fingertips as she gasps and shifts, pushing frantically closer. His mouth brushes each lovely tip, growling low in his throat at her perfect taste, her simple unwarranted trust. Beneath his mouth her heart pounds, the rush of blood through its chambers a whispering promise of more delights to come.

Isabella arches again, twisting upwards off the bed, legs moving restlessly. Edward sucks at her nipple, the taste of her blooming in his head as he flicks his tongue back and forth to increase her pleasure. He presses his thigh between hers, the denim fabric rasping over her naked softness and pressing to her heat. She moans and bucks, and he slides his fingers over her hips, urging her to rock against him. The roughness seems to fuel her hunger until she's so wet he can feel it soaking through the material, slicking his skin. He wants more. He wants that dewy softness against his fingers, his palm. He wants to taste her and feel that sweet nectar coating the burn of his throat, the perfect prelude to the nectar of her blood. Surprisingly, even more than that, he wants to hear her cry out so that he knows he's pleasing her. It's become so important to please her...

Blunt, ineffectual nails dig into his arms as she suddenly convulses beneath him in climax. Her breath stutters in her throat, and her legs shake as she comes, her scent growing stronger, a devastating combination of aroused female and ruby red nirvana.

He wants more.

Edward's hand replaces his thigh, sliding over her sex, parting her like a split ripe peach, his fingers delving inside where she's equally tight and welcoming. The need to possess her entirely grows with the internal spasms that clench his fingers greedily as she comes again, harder this time, coating his hand in more of that rapturous warmth.

Heat. So much exquisite, life-giving heat. He's forgotten how perfect and sublime heat can be, and she is a brimming well of remembrance.

He wants all of her. No part of her will be denied to him. She is his.

His incisors tingle and ache. He ignores them in the pursuit of more mortal pleasures.

His long fingers stroke insistently within her body before she can catch her breath. He braces himself above her, all the better to watch her beautiful reactions. His thumb finds the little swell of her clitoris. He strokes it in time with the fingers inside of her, faster, deeper, knowing just where to touch to make her so slippery she cries out at the feel of it spilling to gloss her inner thighs.

Oh, yes. His little innocent has never known this kind of desire. The kind that has no use for polite restraint and insecure worries. He wants her so soaked she'll drench the sheets, her delicate sensibilities lost to his demands, wanting only to please him and be pleased by him.

One of Isabella's hands releases its fisted hold of his shirt and drops to wrap around his wrist with a whimper meant to stop him.

"What...oh, what are you doing to me…?"

Edward smiles, darkly, curling fingers sensitive to every fluttering internal inch of her. Unerring in accuracy, he finds that place, that special sweet place packed with nerve endings ready and willing to flood her entire body with ecstasy.

She cries out, curving into his touch, shuddering so beautifully in her shock. "Edward, no, it's too much. Don't. I can't…"

Her protests die out on a moan. Melting chocolate eyes dilate on an indrawn breath. Her body hovers on the edge of another orgasm as he strokes over that lovely spot. The wicked demand of his touch, his refusal to coddle her concerns, excites her nearly as much as the placement, he can tell.

Submissive little creature, begging to be owned, to be mastered...

"Liar," he growls lowering his mouth to hers. "Beautiful little liar. It's not too much. You want this, you know that you do. Your body is telling me yes, Isabella. You're ready to come, again. I can feel it."

She whimpers, shuddering and panting as he licks her mouth, moves his lips and teeth back to her neck, scrapes them roughly over that pulsing artery, burning with thirst and desire. "Ask me for it, Isabella. Beg me for it..."

"Oh, God, please...yes, yes..."

"No _God_, Isabella," he snarls, dragging his mouth from the temptation of her blood. "You belong to me now. Say it."

She doesn't resist, doesn't even try. "You," she pants. "I belong to you...please."

Her perfect submission excites him to the point of painful need. "Whatever I want, however I want," he tells her, breathing the words in her mouth, forcing his cold breath into her lungs as his fingers move faster, faster...

She gasps loudly, pleasure swamping her senses, owning her just as he does with each sinful, wicked, demanding stroke. She cries out, clenching around him so tightly, coming utterly undone, her release so intense she forgets to breathe. Before she's even finished, he rears back, tearing open his pants, freeing himself from its confining torture. His hands enclose her hips, biting into the soft flesh, bruising her, marking her, lifting her for his first thrust. He has to have her. He's never felt this level of arousal. He aches to be one with her…

The knowledge that he could shatter her pelvis, crack her hips and snap her spine is present, oddly exciting yet repellent. It's remarkably easy to guard against his strength, though one would hardly call him gentle. She's still coming; writhing against the burn of his stretching invasion as he drives forward, discomfort mingling with her pleasure, exciting her further. Edward drives her fragile body to the very limits of its tolerance and relishes every second of the way she melts, accepting everything he gives.

Her hips rise to meet his, and she tears at the remaining unfastened buttons of his shirt, snapping threads that fall around them so she can rake her nails down his chest. The sensation is powerful, awakening long dormant nerves and reminding him of the feeling of draining life while his victims weakly flailed against him.

This is better. Such decadence. He has never known such decadence.

"Yes," he hisses, wishing for an instant that she was stronger, that she was his equal so her nails could inflict injury even while her human fragility arouses him to a climax so all consuming he roars with the sensation. His cock pulses deliciously inside her, the release wracking him in jolts. That his body can still act as a mortal man almost surprises him.

His mouth is at her throat again, and he drags it away, lifting her, pulling back until he's on his knees and she's straddling his lap. Her lovely skin is damp and slick, the hot clutch of her velvet sex still clamped around him.

More, he wants more.

Isabella's body is limp, weak. Her breathing is strained, but she moans hungrily when he takes her hips and drives upwards, stretching her, filling her. Fingers weakened by strain and fumbling with the pleasure that ripples through her clench in his hair. She tugs hard, and though it only feels like the caress of a breeze to him, he growls a warning she ignores as her hot little mouth finds his. Her kisses make him ache with the need to please her. He wants to feel her coming over him again, taste her climax on her lips one final time before he tastes it in her blood.

He arcs his hips, driving the smooth, slick head of his erection against the top of her firm inner walls. Stroking himself against that spot smoothly, again and again, driven on by her gasping cries that tell him how good it feels to her. Edward presses one hand on the small of her back, the other between their bodies, down to where they join, his thumb seeking the swell of her engorged little clit, stroking it in time with his thrusts, rewarded by small gasps of "_yes, please, yes...__"_

Isabella's smooth thighs tremble against his. Deepening the kiss she began, Edward's tongue flickers against the roof of her mouth and slides against her soft pink tongue, sucking on the tip only to dart back again and sweep over her blunt teeth. As she begins to shudder and come apart, the hand he held at her back slides up, diving into her hair, tilting her neck back roughly. One last time his mouth finds the throbbing force of life within her. As it pulses in time with the deep contractions of her climax, his lips part, cool breath sliding over her sumptuously warm skin.

Oh, the smell of her. The feel of her flesh beneath his mouth, so tissue-thin...

"Edward." She sighs his name just as his jaw begins to clamp down, and at the last second he moves lower to the soft place beneath the carotid artery. Like a scalpel through warm butter his incisors slice through her ivory throat, and her fragrant blood fills his mouth with the sweetest taste he has ever known. The bliss erupts in his senses as she shudders against him, climaxing still, even as her blood leaves her body and enters his. He gulps greedily, tasting flowers and salt and earth buried metals, sweet musk and sun drenched honey, fragrant and lush. A myriad of flavours the likes of which he has never known.

She is heaven and hell, life and death, sin and penitence, all in one.

His body ignites, filling with heat and stolen life and everything pure and good that has been denied him in his cursed existence. Her wet heat clenches around him, and he grows harder with each swallow. Her internal muscles flutter like her heartbeat, like the waves of ambrosial richness fluttering over his tongue, and his body caves to inevitable orgasm. The white hot feel of coming inside her sends flashes of light through his mind in a kaleidoscope of colours so multihued and faceted they blind him. Waves of pleasure course over him, rocking him while he rocks her in his arms. Somehow he keeps his tempo controlled, in the suction on her throat and inside her body, milking the last of her climax as he milks the blood from her veins.

"Edward, please..."

He knows not what she pleads for. Perhaps her life, though he isn't certain she understands what's happening, lost as she still is in the throes of orgasm and rapidly growing weakness. Regardless, it drags him from the world of light and heat and sensation, and he wrenches his mouth from her neck with a snarl. One minute longer and the next few greedy mouthfuls of her sweet blood would have been his last, leaving him pulling nothing but rapidly congealing dregs from her cooling corpse. As it is he's pushed past the limits of what her body could safely offer and weakened her to an extreme. She will not recover quickly from this night, but she will recover. The thought gives him immense pleasure, even as his thirst roars with fury at its less than sated state.

All the more to enjoy later. No need to be greedy. No need to be hasty, he soothes his inner beast. She is a treat he means to savour. A decadent indulgence he will never again be denied.

She is his.

Her heart beat is unsteady, fluttering like a baby bird's helpless wings as he lays her down on her tangled sheets and pillows. He laps the last few drops of blood from her skin, his needless breath panting in and out his lungs. One last lick to seal the edges of the wounds his bite has created. A useful tool for a vampire who wishes to save some for later.

"Mine," he growls low in her ear. "You are mine, Isabella. From now until death claims you, until _I claim_ you." He lets his breath wash over her face, warm now as it slides past the blood heated flesh of his mouth. Her eyelids flutter, her gaze unfocused, though he knows she hears him. "If any other man touches you, I will tear him limb from limb, piece by piece, without mercy. Remember this, my beautiful little lamb. Remember who you belong to."

"Edward."

He smiles darkly as she sighs his name, barely conscious and yet so wonderfully obedient. He slips out of the bed, out of the room and out of the dark house. From across the street, hidden in the shadows, he watches and listens to her breathing and her heartbeat that slowly steadies and begins once again to grow stronger. When the sky turns gray with a coming dawn, he vanishes into the last of the darkness, moving with purpose back to where his night began.

In a dark dank alley, he watches an impudent man child shuffle wearily through a backdoor, the stench of beer and cigarettes and cheap perfume clinging to his clothes. His thoughts are full of the night passed and the girl who was a poor substitute for the mahogany haired beauty he really wanted. The one he dared to harm, to bruise. An action that sealed his fate seconds after it occurred.

As his feet carry him toward the street at its end, Edward reaches out with one hand and snatches him from the growing light. The man's scream is short and abruptly cut off, the piercing sound echoing off walls that bear silent witness.

In a dark, rain dampened forest far from town it is only his first scream of many.


	3. Frestelse

**A/N Thank you to everyone reading and to those reviewing, an extra special thanks to you. :)**

**Thanks to Team PftW - Beta Octoberland and pre-readers Ania and Popola**

**Lyrics below the chapter title (italicized) belong to the song Temptation by the Tea Party. Characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is just me and my twisted imagination that loves to conjure up a dark Edward. ;-)**

_**Last chapter, after his seduction, our dark Edward left Bella alive, but not well. Let's find out how Bella feels the morning after, shall we?**_

_**. . . . . .**_

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter 3

**Frestelse**

_Temptation..._

_Temptation..._

. . . . . .

Waking slowly, trying to rise out of a thick, nonsensical, dream-heavy haze with a throbbing head while feeling as though one has been hit by a two ton truck is an unpleasant experience. One that would automatically make anyone question...why? Anyone except Bella Swan.

For her this is life. Her life, anyway. An endless run of bad luck and bad experiences have inured her so that she no longer asks the question _why_. Things simply are or they are not. It's like a mantra, something to repeat on mornings like this when her body feels separate from her mind and her perception of reality is completely off-kilter. Not that being as weak as a baby and viewing everything through a strange fog of exhaustion upon waking was a common occurrence before today.

Still, her life has always been a shit storm. Nothing truly surprises her anymore. Once upon a time, Bella blamed that on her erratic, unwell mother, Renee, and the endless moving around and parade of men through various houses with revolving doors. At least she had, before she made the decision to move to Forks to live with her father and the bad luck followed, lurking within the rainy little town's near constant cloud cover, hanging over her like a magnetic force.

In essence, escaping Renee changed little for Bella. She moved in with her taciturn father and assumed the role of caregiver, same as she had for Renee in the days before her mother married a younger man with a gift for keeping her mostly on the straight and narrow.

Bella adjusted quickly, never one to wallow in self pity. If she felt slighted or unappreciated for sacrificing so much of her childhood, she didn't let it show. She made a few friends, but for the most part her nights were spent cooking, cleaning and doing homework. Harmless activities constantly barraged by an endless host of accidents and minor injuries, all caused by some latent gene for clumsiness lurking in her DNA.

Sixteen stitches to a finger cut by a chopping knife, the resultant tears more about the onions she was dicing than any pain.

A sprained wrist when she slipped in the shower, a broken toe stubbing her foot on the couch. A concussion slipping on ice in the driveway. A broken leg falling down the stairs that would have meant wearing an ugly cast to prom - if she'd been the type to go to prom, which she wasn't.

And that was the minor stuff. The stuff she didn't blink an eye over. The other stuff?

Well...

She nearly died in the school parking lot when a little ice sent Tyler Crowley's car skidding towards her like a heat guided missile. Seven broken bones, six surgeries, five months in Seattle's Northwest hospital learning how to walk again.

She nearly died again when a casual trip to Port Angeles shopping for dresses to a dance she had no plans on attending, turned into a nightmare when she took a wrong turn leaving a book store. Four men with evil in their hearts and minds attacked her. In the struggle she escaped with her virginity intact, but not her spleen. A stab wound ruptured the unnecessary little organ and doctors called her lucky. Weak from loss of blood and pain, Bella still didn't miss the sceptical look on her father's pale face. Police Chief Charlie Swan was a pragmatic man at the time, but if he'd believed in luck at all, his money would have been on the bad kind when it came to his only child.

That sceptical look only grew when they proclaimed her lucky again a few months later after she nearly drowned in a reckless attempt at cliff diving, and again when she totalled a motorcycle he'd forbidden her to ride.

When she ran into a pack of huge timber wolves on a casual walk in the woods during her senior year, even she began to think her number was up and fate just wasn't sure yet how to call it.

If it wasn't for Jacob Black, Bella's first and only boyfriend, she was certain Charlie would have used his handcuffs to lock her in the house. She'd caught him once, glaring in a mirror, rifling through the gray hairs on his head just before he and his deputies went out to look for that rogue wolf pack that dared to come so close to town.

"I love ya, kid, but every damn one of these has your name on it," he'd told her gruffly. As he went to leave, he kissed the top of her head and muttered something about thanking God she had someone like Jake to look after her.

Not that Jacob was the end of her bad luck. An on again off again volatile relationship that ended with several broken windows, and Charlie being forced to throw his best friend's son in jail to sober up, could never be called good luck.

Bella shakes off the cling of fatigue and superfluous reminiscing with effort, and tries to focus on the here and now. The glare of a seldom seen sun shines through her dingy sheers and makes the pounding in her head worse, which is no help in the focusing department. It also alerts her to the fact that she's managed to sleep through half the day, which isn't like her at all. Dragging herself out of bed, she staggers to the bathroom to inspect the damage.

While she walks on legs made of Jell-O, memories of the night before scatter her equilibrium and make her question her sanity. They trickle in slowly and she forces them in line, trying to start at the beginning.

God, how much did she have to drink last night?

_Mike and Ben inviting her out. The bar and the band, which was incredible. The pulsing, driving, beat of the music filling her head and allowing her, just for a little while, to escape the pathetic, boring excuse her life has become. The lead singer, smiling at her and giving her that look, the one that so clearly said he was interested. Her own returning look before common sense reminded her that the last thing she needed was a one night stand with a musician. _

In a town the size of Forks where secrets are impossible, and her Father is the Chief of Police who still thinks she's twelve and should wear her hair in pigtails no less? Yeah, not a good idea. Besides, she is the proverbial good girl. Responsible, reasonable, rational.

She hears the list of letter R adjectives racing through her foggy thoughts and wonders why they all sound like insults to her lately. Apparently though, she wasn't any of those things last night. No, she was anything but...

_Ben, leaving early to meet Angela, offering her a ride which she refused. The band was too good, the music too powerful, her life too much shit and boredom and empty unfulfilled space that made a person ache because they couldn't ever figure out what was missing. So why shouldn't she stay, flirt a little with the singer, have a few harmless drinks,_ escape_, just for a few hours? Didn't she deserve that, just once? _

_Walking away from Mike who wouldn't stop hitting on her..._

Still sorting through the fuzzy haze of images in her head that constituted the realities of her time spent, she surveys herself in the mirror.

_Jesus, Bella, you're a mess_, she thinks with shock. Sleep drugged, weak, and still not fully coherent, she stares at the person she hardly recognizes as herself. Her hair is a tangled cascade falling around her face in riots of curls and snarls. The remnants of black mascara and eyeliner rim her puffy eyes in streaks and smudges that contrast violently against her gray-white complexion. The entire mess gazes back at her, answering none of her questions. Her fingers find her mouth and run over the red swollen contours of her lips. They feel achy and hot, puffy and bruised, like something, or someone, has been chewing on them.

_Someone..._

A sudden and alarming image of black eyes with irises rimmed in the thinnest ring of strange red begins to float briefly through her consciousness, flickering in and out of her mental grasp. Pale skin and cool hands; a voice whispering something in her ear... A voice like velvet, and sex, and sin...

She raises another hand to try and tame the mess of hair around her face, and her fingers shake like a victim of palsy. _What is wrong with Her! _Her heart races as she tries to remember past those moments when she left Mike.

Only she didn't leave Mike. Mike left her, his sullen face scowling over his retreating shoulder, angry eyes full of more than just attitude, something very much like fear...

"_I believe the young lady is not interested tonight, Mike."_

"_Hey, ah, ahhhh, shit. What the fuck, asshole...?"_

_Mike's wrist in a vise lock created by strong fingers that looked somehow elegant and lethal at the same time. The protective way Mike cradled his wrist when it was abruptly released._

"_Whatever. I'm going inside, Bella. You do what the fuck you want."_

Mike's surly voice fades away from her thoughts, leaving her dizzy, her saviours face floating just out of reach. She's so tired, drained really, as though she's just awoken from a long illness. The feeling is familiar.

_A hospital in Port Angeles. An I.V. drip of blood. A nurse clucking her tongue while adjusting the brace holding the syringe in place. "Another unit and you'll be feeling more yourself, dear. You lost quite a bit of blood, and we need to stabilize you for surgery to remove that damaged spleen of yours. There, there now dear-heart. Don't cry. It's an awful thing that happened to you tonight. An awful, awful thing, but you're safe now..."_

Not wanting that particular unpleasant memory, Bella pushes it back.

Desperately thirsty, she fills the small glass she keeps by the sink and guzzles glass after glass until the tepid temperature of the water from the faucet turns icy enough to make her shiver. A trickle escapes her mouth and slides down her chin and neck, the cold feel of it bringing another flash of memory.

_Her living room. A beautiful face so striking, so perfect. Her heart racing in excitement and fear and need. She wanted... Oh, God, how she wanted..._

"_You don't want... a... a drink?" _

"_Oh yes, little one. I very much desire a... drink." _

More flashes. In the mirror she gets to watch the flames she feels burning her face paint a furious blush of pink in her cheeks.

_Edward. _The name ignites the memories faster, and it all comes pouring in now. Her naked skin prickles and tingles in every place as she once again feels those cool, firm lips, kissing, licking, brushing, _demanding_ as she writhed beneath him.

_Edward. _

She drops the glass and it shatters against the porcelain bottom of the sink. Not that she notices...

_Edward._

Her erstwhile saviour. Her gallant, dark knight who rescued her and walked her home and gave her her very first thrill of movie-style romance. Her impulsive, need-filled, rebellious, terrifying trip into the realm of bad girls, and her first ever illicit one-night stand with a mysterious, hot as hell stranger_._

The not unpleasant ache between her legs matches the wild, wanton look that reflects back at her from the mirror. The expression "rode hard and put away wet," and all its unflattering yet deliciously naughty intonations, rings through her head. They blend with the x-rated visuals her mind regurgitates freely now.

_Oh God! Not her, that couldn't have been her, she never acted like that, ever._

She feels equal parts mortified and turned on as she inspects the perfect fingerprint shaped bruises on her thighs and hips. The swollen tips of her heavy feeling breasts...

_Edward._

Edward of the dark, odd eyes and the velvet voice and the beautiful chiselled jaw and body. Skin cool, perfectly defined muscles so hard to the touch, feeling like sculpture beneath her greedy hands...

_Edward..._

Edward who?

She never asks why, but surely she asked who.

Didn't she?

Did she really invite him in?

Oh yes, she did. And a hell of a lot more than that, too. A new wave of dizziness makes her knees shudder and Bella knows she can no longer stand, no longer think. Repercussions of her actions bounce around in her head, tangling with the confusion, the dizziness, the dead tired feeling she can't shake.

Did he use protection? Was he clean? Oh, shit, please let him have been clean...

Who was he? A guy passing through? Didn't he say something like that?

A roadie! He had to have been one of the roadies for the band! Even small bar bands used a few roadies to help with equipment, didn't they?

A roadie wearing weird contacts with cool skin and...

Oh, God. She didn't think he was a roadie, not really. She can't think about what he was though, not now. Hopefully not ever because her confused head is screaming things at her now she doesn't want to listen to. Oh no, not at all.

_Christ, Bella! What were you thinking? What did you do?_

Cursing, she staggers away from the mirror and makes it, just barely, back to bed where she collapses into the sweetly scented sheets and blankets. Yanking the tangled fabric over her body as best she can, she inhales that smell deeply. She's oddly comforted by the scent. It wraps around her, and she plummets hard into sleep and oblivion where she instantly begins dreaming about red-black eyes and pale skin so perfect to touch it almost hurts...

. . . . . .

The insistent ringing of the phone wakes her next, dragging her away from the disturbing and erotic dreams that cling to her like a gossamer shroud even as she fully wakes. Her skin tingles and the place between her legs aches and throbs with unfulfilled need, though she can't quite grasp the thread of the dream.

Her answering machine kicks in, chasing away the pleasant yet elusive feelings as Jess's voice pours out of the tinny sounding speakers, annoyed and worried sounding.

"Bella! Damn it, where are you?" A harsh sigh and something that sounds like rustling paper and plastic is followed by a thump. "I waited at the restaurant for nearly an hour for you. I've been calling all damn day. What the hell? Would you please,_ please_ call me back? I'm starting to freak out here." More rustling and another sigh, followed up by something that sounds like keys falling into a bowl. "Come on, Bella. This isn't like you, and I don't know if I should be calling Jake, or Charlie, or what the hell I should..."

At the mention of her ex-boyfriend and father's names, Bella finds some untapped reservoir of energy and hurls herself out of bed, hitting the floor on her knees. She scrambles around and finds her cordless phone on the floor by her haphazardly discarded jeans, answering just before Jess hangs up.

"I'm here, Jess," she croaks, her voice sounding like rocks on a cheese grater.

"Bella? Shit, is that you?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me." In a nearly foetal position she rests her head on the faded, seen better days carpet. The room is thankfully dark now, giving her pounding head some respite. The green numbers on her clock radio mock her.

9:43 p.m.

She's slept the entire day away. In the back of her mind she vaguely remembers making plans with Jess sometime yesterday afternoon to meet for a late dinner.

"What the hell, Bella?" Jess yells directly into the phone making her wince. "I've been calling you all day. I even went to the restaurant when I didn't hear from you thinking you'd still at least meet me there..."

"Jess!" She manages to cut into her friend's pissy diatribe. "Quit yelling, I can hear you, okay."

Jess huffs angrily, but at least lowers her tone. "Where have you been, why didn't you meet me?"

"I'm sorry. I haven't been anywhere. Just here, in bed, sleeping. I think I'm sick."

"Sick? What do you mean you _think_ you're sick? As in liquid over indulgence sick? Christ, Bella. Don't tell me you blew me off because you're hung over?"

Bella groans, fighting the urge to hang up the phone. She's been best friends with Jess since she moved to Forks six years ago, but there are times where even her tough outer skin gets abraded by Jess's self centered behaviour. The girl has her moments but they can be few and far between, especially if they stand in the way of her getting to flirt with the cute waiter at the restaurant they were supposed to meet at.

"I'm not hung over. I hardly drank at all last night. I don't know what this is. The flu I guess." The lie falls so easily from her lips that she cringes. She's always been a private person, not one to spill her thoughts in verbal tirades, but this is Jess. And this is the 21st century! She's hardly going to be branded with a scarlet letter for admitting to a hot as hell romp with a sexy stranger. The instinct to hide last night is visceral though. A gut reaction she cannot resist. She hasn't yet come to terms with it all herself. She isn't ready to explain it to anyone else. Not even her best friend.

Jess sighs again, sounding still put out but cooling down a little. "I've been worried sick," she states, and Bella instantly feels guilty for her less than warm thoughts. Jess isn't all bad. A little selfish at times but caring underneath, even if it doesn't always show.

"I'm sorry. I really never heard the phone or I would have answered it."

"Well, you do sound like shit. Do you really think it's the flu?"

"I don't know. I've honestly never felt like this before," she answers, her throat trying to close up on the lie. She felt like this the night she was attacked in Port Angeles, but no way can she think about that connection too hard. It just doesn't make sense.

_Oh, God. Please don't let it make sense..._

Her head is still pounding, though now that she's fully awake she can tell it isn't nearly as bad as it was. At least the room has stopped spinning and rocking.

"Are you losing calories?"

In spite of it all, Bella can't help but smile at the familiar Jess euphemism and the nervous, slightly repulsed tone the question is delivered in. Jess has an extremely weak stomach and can't handle anything gross. Vomiting hits the top of the list in things that trigger her gag reflex.

"No, my stomach feels fine. I just have a brutal headache and feel like someone sucked all the energy out of my body."

"Did you eat anything today?"

At the mention of food, Bella's stomach instantly snarls loud enough Jess hears it through the phone.

"Was that your stomach?" she asks, sounding like she wants to laugh.

"Yeah, it's answering the question for you." She might not feel like eating, but apparently her stomach thinks otherwise.

"All right, look. I ordered take out when you didn't show, so give me fifteen and I'll be over. You need to get some nutrition into you, and then I'm sure you'll start to feel better."

"Nah, Jess, don't worry about it. I'm too tired to eat anyway. I'm just going to go back to bed."

"Go ahead and go back to bed, but I'm still coming over and bringing food. I'll let myself in. Keys still under the planter by the door, right?" Jess's voice has taken on that no nonsense tone she adopts whenever she's made up her mind about something, so Bella answers in the affirmative, too exhausted and weak to argue. "Okay, then. Do you need anything else?"

"A blood transfusion maybe," she jokes, feeling goose-bumps break out over her skin the instant the careless words leave her mouth.

_Too close to the truth...? _

Jess laughs and hangs up without saying good-bye, and Bella manages to crawl to her dresser to drag out one of Jake's old jerseys that he left behind from the days when they were more than just friends. She pulls the long sleeves down all the way, covering the bruises on her wrist from Mike, then makes it back to the bed and hits the pillows like dead weight, not even trying to fight the pull of sleep. Whatever this is, it seems like the best thing she can do is give in and hope it passes sooner rather than later. Besides, sleeping right now is a hell of a lot more appealing than coming to terms with what she did last night...

. . . . . .

When she opens her eyes next it's to the sound of Jess's voice cursing in the hallway outside her bedroom door as she trips over something. A second later the light flicks on, casting red striations behind her tightly closed eyelids.

"Bella? Are you awake?"

"I am now," she manages to answer. Her throat still feels parched and abraded.

"Damn, look at you," Jess mutters, and Bella forces one eye open to give her friend what she hopes is a glare, but figures probably closer resembles a weak squint. Jess stands in the open doorway, her gaze going from Bella on the bed to the scattered remnants of her clothes all over the floor. She blinks, a look of confusion crossing her face before she reaches down and picks up Bella's bra, dangling it off her finger. Or what's left of the bra. The material is shredded in several places, barely resembling what it once was. "Christ, Bella. What did you do? Bring home Edward Scissor Hands?"

The shock of hearing _his_ name goes through Bella like a vicious lightning bolt. She gapes at Jess as her mind tries to make sense of what was just said.

_Edward._ Edward with the cool hands and eerily beautiful face. Edward with the ability to make her completely abandon all sense of right and wrong and just...feel.

Edward Scissor Hands. A make-believe character in a make-believe movie. Once upon a time she and Jess indulged in 80's movie marathons and drooled over the lovely, broody Johnny Depp and his tortured character.

_Not the same. She doesn't know. Calm down._

Luckily Jess is paying no attention, her remark nothing more than a flippant phrase meant as a joke. She misses Bella's reaction, drops the bra on the floor, and heads for a window. Cracking it open, she shoves the curtains aside to let in some of the muggy night air as she bitches about the heat in the room. She sniffs suspiciously, still utterly oblivious to the panic attack gripping Bella in her bed.

Swallowing in a desperate attempt to wet her dry mouth, Bella tries to slow her heart and blots her damp hands on the hem of Jake's shirt. The familiar feel of the worn jersey soothes her nerves, and she's regained some of her composure when Jess turns back to her.

Jess sniffs again, louder. "_What_ is that smell?" She asks suddenly, surprising Bella with such an odd question and the surreal feel of it on the heels of her last comment.

"What? What smell?"

Jess sniffs again, reaching for and picking up one of the candles from Bella's dresser. Her nose wrinkles faintly and she puts it back down; obviously it isn't the source of whatever she's looking for.

Bella gets her feet off the bed and under her, perching almost precariously at the edge and trying to convince herself she should get up. She lifts one of her leaden arms and sniffs suspiciously at her armpit. Well, it isn't any bed of roses, but it's hardly ripe enough to have Jess stalking around her room like a blood hound on the trail of something valuable.

"Maybe it's me," she offers anyway, as Jess discards yet another candle and picks up Bella's one and only solitary bottle of perfume. "I haven't had a shower yet today."

Jess approaches, and Bella is a little startled when she literally leans in and sniffs at her.

"Jeez, Jess. Get away from me."

"It _is_ you," she declares triumphantly. Bella tries to bat her away when she comes even closer, encroaching on her personal space in a very un-Jess like move. Jess merely reaches for her sheets and starts snuffing at them. "Or it's your bedding...I guess? Wow! What kind of detergent are you using, that's amazing!"

Shaking her head, Bella gets out of the bed, the decision to do so born more out of wanting to get away from her suddenly olfactory obsessed friend than any real desire to move. Her nerves stretch wire thin as it dawns on her that the smell of her bedding is not detergent, but sex and mystery Edward's uniquely delicious... cologne?

When the room stays steady, Bella takes full advantage to leave it as fast as she can without falling over anything, wanting to get Jess away from any evidence as quickly as possible. Luckily Jess quits snorting up her sheets and follows.

In the living room, Bella flops on the couch and yanks the threadbare afghan over her legs, chilled despite the fact her house is usually stuffy and hot. Jess throws open more windows, verifying whatever is up with her own personal thermostat it doesn't have anything to do with the temperature around her.

"God, it's hotter than Hades in here, no wonder you feel like crap, girl," Jess snaps crossly, batting her hair away from her perspiration damp forehead. Finished wrestling with the ancient windows, she crosses the room and begins opening containers and laying out utensils. The aromas of mushroom ravioli and crisp garden salad fill the air, and Bella's stomach lets out another snarl when the smell makes her mouth water.

Jess snorts and hands her one of the containers. "Here, eat. Preferably before that thing attacks," she demands, scooping up her own container and sitting at the opposite end of the couch.

For a while the only sounds are metal tongs scraping over cheap plastic containers and the almost comforting sounds of chewing and swallowing. Jess gets up and goes to the kitchen, returning with glasses filled with ice and cold tea. Before she even sits down, Bella has guzzled the entire glass, rinsing a huge mouthful of ravioli down in the process. Jess arches an eyebrow at her.

"Do you want more?"

Bella nods sheepishly, and Jess rolls her eyes, though she dutifully takes the empty glass before returning to the kitchen and bringing the entire pitcher back with her.

"Thanks," Bella mutters around another mouthful of her food. She's too ravenous to care about her lack of manners.

Shaking her head, Jess settles back on the couch and returns to eating daintily from her own meal, a small frown marring her pretty features. "When was the last time you ate?" she asks, sounding equal parts amused and astonished.

"Yesterday, lunch." Shovelling in another mouthful, she gives Jess a slightly sheepish look. "I'm starving," she adds unnecessarily.

"Really? I didn't notice." Jess reaches for the remote and snaps on the TV, flipping channels until she finds a local news station. A bleach blonde news anchor drones on about two missing men that vanished seemingly into thin air last week. Both of them were known members of a biker gang with ties to sex trafficking and dope smuggling, their police 'rap' sheets longer than their combined arms.

Bella can't focus on anything, and the voice drones on becoming an incomprehensible buzz in her ears. Jess makes a tsking sound with her tongue, rolling her eyes at something the announcer says about the city's residents happily believing a vigilante is cleaning up the streets. It seems to take most of Bella's energy just to go through the motions of eating, never mind trying to figure out what about the disappearances annoy Jess.

As if she senses Bella's confusion, Jess waves an arm at the TV. "Two weeks ago, a girl I know in Port Angeles, her uncle goes missing. Says he's going fishing, is seen at the Marina getting his boat ready, then poof, no one sees him again. His boat never even left the dock. You don't hear a word about it, but a couple scumbag bikers into kidnapping young girls from some third world place to peddle out as prostitutes do a disappearing act, and _that_ makes headlines." She huffs out a breath. "Sorry, stuff like this just…makes me mad."

Muting the television when the anchor turns the camera over to the sports commentator, Jess puts her half eaten meal on the coffee table and lights a cigarette, curling her legs up and settling into the corner of the couch. Her gaze is steady and speculative as she stares at Bella like she's trying to put together a puzzle in her mind.

"So. Want to tell me what happened last night?"

Bella shrugs her shoulders, placing her container on the table beside Jess's when her appetite finally relents. She lays her head back wearily against the couch cushions and shrugs a second time.

"Nothing happened. I went to the bar, listened to some music and came home." She stares at the TV screen, the walls that need paint, the cigar burn hole in the worn hardwood floor from a superbowl party Jake threw a year ago. Anywhere but at Jess whose eyes she can feel burrowing into her. She feels a little better, stronger, having eaten, but she isn't ready to confront the elephant in the room.

Jess makes a noise of derision, and Bella snaps her eyes back open to regard her friend, curious in spite of herself as to the disbelief inherent in the sound.

"Come on, Bella. I wasn't born yesterday."

"What are you talking about, Jess?" Playing dumb, Bella flicks imaginary crumbs off her lap.

"You," she replies haughtily. "I'm talking about you."

The TV flickers light over the dim room and the sheer curtains shift in the heavy, moisture laden breeze. Outside the night is eerily silent and heavy. Not even the crickets that tend to congregate in the untrimmed hedges at the side of the house are chirping.

"You say you aren't hung over, Bella, and I'm willing to buy that. You've never been much of a drinker, and the amount of food you just devoured seems to back you up. I've seen you hung over before. Remember Lauren's going away party? You tossed your cookies for twelve goddamn hours straight."

"Yeah, I'd rather not remember that, thanks."

"My point is," Jess continues, shifting her weight so that she's leaning forward, pinning Bella with that gaze that says she isn't about to let this go. She can be like a damn Pitbull once she has her teeth in something. "That you, my b.f.f. aren't sharing all the details."

Closing her eyes again, Bella sinks further into the couch, grabbing one of the decorative pillows and wrapping her arms around it like a shield. "There isn't any details to share," she lies. Well, it isn't really a lie. How the hell do you share details that aren't completely clear in your head? She can hear herself give it an imaginary try in her mind and it nearly makes her laugh. Or it would, if it didn't kind of make her want to cry.

_Well, see, Jess. Last night at the bar, this incredibly beautiful man saved me from Mike Newton's overactive hormones and ego, and then offered to walk me home. So I invited him in, and he screwed my brains out. Literally if the way I feel is any indication, which I think it is. It was the best sex I ever had, and you know Jake was no dud in bed, so that is saying a lot._

Insert Jess applauding loudly here. She's forever saying Bella needs to get laid ever since her and Jake split. _But__ wait, the tangent isn't over yet,_ she instructs her brain, and Jess's imaginary applause fades into expectant silence.

_The only problem—aside from the fact I don't even know the guys full name—is I don't think what happened here last night was normal. In fact, I know it wasn't. I just don't know why? And the very fact that I'm asking _why_ is freaking me out, because you know I never, ever, ask why._

Bella forces her overactive imagination to silence before Jess suspects any more than she already does. She sure as hell doesn't plan on telling any of that to Jess. If she does, she has a feeling Jess will end up dragging her to the emergency room of Forks' one and only rinky-dink hospital and have her tested for GHB. Which might not be a bad idea...

Jess is looking at her with an arched eyebrow, blue eyes flashing with suspicion.

"I already told you," she repeats. "I went out, came home, fell asleep, woke up feeling like crap..."

"Bullshit, Bella. Look at you. You aren't hung-over..."

"We've established that already." She tries, but isn't fully successful at keeping her tone the right side of snide. "I'm _sick_." Again, not really a lie. Amazing sex doesn't make you feel like this, so maybe she is sick. Oh, God. What if he gave her something? She tries to keep the panic from showing on her face at that lovely thought. Though, if she's honest, she's pretty damn certain that isn't what's going on. Her mind scrambles in on itself, supplying her with images that cement the fact last night was capital W weird.

The way he moved, so controlled, so graceful. The way he talked, like someone from a different time. The red around his eyes - her mind keeps coming back to that, those terrifying, thrilling, hypnotic eyes...

Emphasizing the word sick doesn't distract Jess the way she hoped.

"And, you aren't _sick_." Before Bella can reply, Jess hurries on leaving no space for interruption or arguments. "I mean you are white as a damn sheet, which is saying a lot for you, seeing as how white is your natural colour, corpse girl, but you don't have a fever, you aren't coughing or sneezing, or hurling up all that food you ate for that matter either. So sick? Nope, not buying it."

"So what am I then, oh, mighty knower off all things?" Bella's head is pounding, again. She really just wants to go back to bed and escape all the things her mind is trying to tell her.

"Well, let's look at the evidence, shall we?"

Bella opens one eye and watches Jess hold up her hand. Her pointer finger extends with the others curled tensely against her palm, as though eagerly awaiting their chance to stand at attention.

"One. Your bra is in shreds on your bedroom floor. Two." The next finger pops up aggressively and Bella almost flinches at the action, her nerves on edge. "Your sheets smell like the best cologne I've ever smelled in my life. I saw the bottle of Tide in the kitchen, Bella, and last I checked, Tide does _not_ smell like that. And three? You've got a hickey on your neck the size of a silver dollar." Jess drops her hand, barely allowing that third finger to have its time in the spotlight. "So I repeat. What the hell happened last night?"

Bella's fingers, not nearly as steady and competent as those of her friend, instantly find the place on her neck that Jess must be referring to. She's just now realizing that there has been an uncomfortable little ache in that spot since she woke up the first time. She easily relegated it to the back of the bus in the overwhelming mix of other aches and pains so much more present than this tiny discomfort.

_Cool fingers slide over her scalp and tangle in her hair, pulling her head back... Cool breath on her skin, lips icy hot and sinful on her throat, the scrape of teeth, teasing, nipping, and then..._

_A low growl, the feeling of being consumed and wanting it, wanting more... A sharp pain and exquisite consuming bliss...impossible to tell where one began and the other ended._

"_Mine. You are mine, Isabella."_

The possessive, dark voice glides out of her subconscious, and she feels her mouth make a sharp oh shape as she throws off the blanket and stumbles to her feet. Ignoring Jess's new questions, she darts to the small mirror by the front door and tilts her head, trying to get the weak light to illuminate her neck.

There.

A dark, bruised patch, violent and obvious against the white backdrop of her throat. She stares at the tiny puncture marks hidden in the swirls of purples and blues and red raised skin, her world once again a very colourful place. She stares and stares, and wonders if she hasn't gone a little insane.

"_Mine."_ That's what he said, repeatedly in fact. His voice was a growl, low and made of sex and power and something raw. Even now, full of fear, she feels it, deep and igniting right between her legs. _"You are mine, Isabella. From now until death claims you, until I claim you."_

"_Remember who you belong to."_

_Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God..._

Jess appears behind her, a worried frown on her face. "Bella, don't freak. You can tell me, you know. I'm your best friend; I promise I won't go ape-shit on you."

Bella shakes her head, her hair falling back down to cover the mark before Jess can get a better look at it and see that it is so much more than a hickey. Her image stares back at her frozen in disbelief as more visuals flood her mind, coming back quickly now combined with the awareness of so many things she cannot believe she's been ignoring.

_Oh, Jesus, what the hell have I done?_

"Was it Jake? Bella, please! Tell me it was Jake and not Mike Newton!"

As if Jess's words are a bucket of ice water dumped over her head, Bella exhales with a hard shudder having not even realized she was holding her breath. Her limbs unfreeze, and she begins to shake.

"It wasn't Mike," she manages, her mouth suddenly as dry as it was hours ago, maybe even more so. She tries to say something else, but nothing comes out. Still facing the mirror, she wouldn't have been surprised to see sand spilling out over her tongue that's how dry her mouth is. Sahara desert dry. Behind her, oblivious to everything, Jess looks to the ceiling and lets out her own heavy breath.

"Thank, GOD! You had me worried for a minute there" Shaking her head with a small laugh, she turns and begins collecting the leftovers of dinner, piling them neatly in a stack and deftly carting them into the kitchen. Bella continues to stare at her reflection, her mind blank now, mercifully so. She feels like a container overflowing with so many miscellaneous items that a person couldn't possibly make sense of the contents. A person probably wouldn't want to make sense of them.

_Edward. Mystery man, gallant hero? Not damn likely._

_Who the hell was he, then? Or better yet, _what_ the hell was he?_

From the kitchen she hears water running and the sound of the silverware clinking together as it's placed in the dishwasher. Normal sounds in a whole lot of not normal memories. She manages finally to move and makes her way with feet made of stone back to the couch where she sinks down. Leaning forward, she puts her head on her knees and concentrates on breathing in, out, repeat.

"So. You and Jake again, huh?" Jess yells to be heard over the slosh of water rinsing glasses. "Is this a one night for old time's sake kind of booty call thing, or are the two of you getting back together, or what?"

Bella lifts her head and places her ice-cold shaking fingers over her eyes. "Or what," she answers robotically, aware of how the words mean so much more to her than they will to Jess. She hears Jess make that snorting sound again before she comes back in the room wiping her hands on one of Bella's Disney dish towels. Mickey's smiling face is twisted into something unrecognizable, his ears bending and turning with each wring until they look like devil's horns. Mushroom ravioli burns the back of Bella's throat. She hears him again.

"_You are mine, Isabella. From now until death claims you, until I claim you."_

"By the way, Bella. Did you know your lock is broken on the front door?"

She barely makes it to the wastepaper basket in the corner, the purged contents of her stomach burning past her throat and rushing out of her mouth in silent heaves. She wishes she could purge the things in her mind as easily...

* * *

**A/N This story has a slow reveal process but the pieces will come together. Keep in mind this is somewhat non-canon and once again for those who may have missed it in my first A/N -**_** no venom, no sparkling, very little vegetarianism.**_** Think more traditional vampire mythology mixed in with SM's. Next chapter returns to Edward's POV. He's been busy while Bella slept and recovered... ;-)**


	4. Tentazzjoni

A/N - Thanks and love to my amazing pre-readers Ania and Popola for all their help with this chapter.

This one hasn't been beta'd. I've done my best to edit, but stuff slips by me. Feel free to point out big goofs but please graciously forgive little ones.

Lyrics after chapter title belong to the song Temptation by the Tea Party. Characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.

Now, let's find out what Darkward has been up to since he left Bella's bed, shall we?

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter 4

**Tentazzjoni**

. . . . . .

_Drowning in a sea of rage  
I taste the embrace..._

_. . . . . ._

From the thick cover of trees just across the road from Isabella Swan's house, Edward can see and hear everything. He shifts quietly to the upper branches of the tree closest to her bedroom window and listens to the sounds of her soft breathing, measured and deep in her heavy slumber. Nothing breaks the perfect sound, even the insects know when a predator is in their midst, burrowing deeper into their coverings of leaves and dirt.

He rests against the tree's thick trunk and quietly ponders all he learned today.

Such a complicated weave a human life creates. It's been so long since there was any real humanity in him that he stopped paying attention to the tapestries of day to day human existence. The way it twists and twines, interlacing with others until it's impossible to tell where one ends and another begins. Mortal lives overlap like colourful magazine pictures in a child's art collage, one over the other, over the other...

Creating complications he never needed to address before when his only desire was to feed, never to possess. And possession is exactly what he has in mind, now.

It was a relatively easy decision to make, all things considered. He is at heart and mind a selfish creature, tired of existing with the lingering nuisance of a conscience. Balancing his sins on an internal set of scales with the necessary evils of his survival, has made him weary and jaded. This one time he will have what he truly wants. Her. An innocent of incomparable breed. Something pure and sublime and solely his. Nothing will stop him.

_No one_ will stop him.

He flicks dried blood and tissue away from the skin around his fingernails, watching as it falls to the ground, speckling the green grass with rust coloured flakes. The sweet iron smell of death wafts up heavily from his spattered clothes. It carries a cloying, putrid edge that makes him ache with the memory of another purer taste.

Isabella.

So fresh in comparison to the blood of the disgusting young man he buried deep in the woods, pieces scattered over miles of untouched wilderness for the scavengers to dig up and feast upon. Edward barely swallowed any of him, and now regretfully wishes he swallowed none, for it tainted the lingering flavour of her that had been left in his mouth. A sacrilege and a waste that angers him anew each time he thinks of it.

That is until it makes him smile. The decadent screams and pleas for mercy floating through the air were like music to a predator's ears. Well worth the small sacrifice.

Mike Newton had a lot to answer for, and Edward was the perfect creature to ask the questions and help him pay his dues. Both for sins committed and, worse, sins contemplated.

Edward stops smiling as he remembers finding the worthless human creeping out of the night club's back door, reeking of alcohol, cheap perfume and virgin blood. His vile mind was full of memories of his sins against a young girl stoned on the drugs and liquor he'd provided. He'd taken her in a dirty, poorly lit stairwell, pushing her body against a damp cement wall, bruising and biting. All the while his filth strewn thoughts had been on someone else, imagining the helpless weeping in his ears was uttered by the one he really wanted.

Bella Swan.

Isabella.

Edward's Isabella.

_His._

Edward almost wishes Mike Newton wasn't already dead. His mind is full of new and more inventive ways he could have made the child pay for his foul imaginings.

Though his actions against Isabella outside the Twilight Tavern had earned retribution of some kind, Edward might have been inclined to give a lighter punishment if his gift didn't allow such a detailed look into the wastrel's mind. For Mike Newton was the very epitome of the evil that Edward has been stalking and reaping justice upon for decades. Normally Edward would have merely made a meal of such a pathetic soul, but under the circumstances, one could hardly blame him for the violence.

He promised Isabella he would tear apart any man who touched her, so that's exactly what he did.

First he broke Newton's wrist in illustration of what it was like to be restrained by someone stronger than himself, pulverizing the bones into splinters. Overkill perhaps, but Edward was making a point, after all.

Once the wails stopped, Edward had meant to snap the snivelling deviant's neck cleanly. A court of law might have acquitted Newton of assaulting the girl due to lack of evidence about consent, but Edward was bound by no such rules. Before he could, however, he caught a whisper of deeper evil. Suspicious, he picked and interrogated, dredging up images and screaming, pleading utterances that soon became blood soaked confessions to a most unlikely confessor. A most unforgiving confessor, as Edward made him pay dearly for each one, all without mercy or promise of absolution.

The whelp's confession that he had coveted Isabella with an unholy obsession for years, earned him the forced recital of dozens of Hail Mary's sung in a soprano of agony.

The admission that he'd stalked Isabella and taken photographs of her in a multitude of places and circumstances to plaster to his walls, earned him a dozen more.

That he'd desecrated those photographs with self induced ejaculatory emissions born from twisted, sickening fantasies, earned him several dozen more. Not to mention the removal of both testicles, torn from his body in one wrenching twist that made his eyes roll to the back of his head.

And yet a dozen more when the pathetic thing, who no longer knew his own name outside of the pain, regained consciousness. One set for each and every repulsive thought of rape and possession that vile human had dared to contemplate against Isabella.

Newton's death was slow and methodical, and Edward enjoyed every agonized, drawn out second of it.

Finding Isabella's bracelet in the miscreant's pocket as he removed the last appendage from between the sick freaks legs would have cost him dozens more, if his heart hadn't finally lost the battle to remain beating.

Humans are so weak...

Edward laments now that he didn't think to remove that appendage first. It would have been far more fitting than the arms and legs heaped in a pile. If he had learned of the plans Newton held within his burgeoning psychopathic mind earlier, he would have been sure to do just that. Perhaps he would have fed it to him, bite by bite. Watching him choke on the body part that had seemed to rule his mind, the very part he'd most wanted to use to cause Isabella pain, would have been a great pleasure for Edward.

There is nothing he loathes more than sexual predators who find release and gratification in the giving of physical and emotional suffering. Mike Newton had been well on his way to becoming just such a creature. Now, his name joins the long tally in Edward's mind of like-minded men he dispatched to hell where they belonged.

He's pulled from his reminiscing when he hears Isabella sigh in her sleep, troubled perhaps by unpleasant dreams. He wonders if they are of him then fervently hopes they are for he wants to be in her mind and thoughts in all ways. Fearful or pleasant, at this point it matters only that she thinks of him. There will be time enough later to show her that he will, for all intents and purposes, be a gentle and giving master.

She was troubled and fearful earlier, this much he does know. Eavesdropping upon her conversation with a female visitor showed Edward the struggle she was experiencing to grasp the meaning of what had happened between them. He assumed Isabella would be like most humans, searching for logic and sane answers even when there were none to be found. Her expressions and actions that he watched through the eyes of the other human girl seemed to attest to that. And still, it aggravated him endlessly to be so blocked from her mind that he was forced to rely on the petty musings in the head of her irritatingly vain companion.

The girl Isabella called Jess latched onto a dozen wrong possibilities for her friend's odd state, none of them correct, yet all of them enlightening in their own way. Each one gave him a glimpse into the personality and lifestyle of the creature who so enthrals him.

Through this Jess's mind, he monitored the discarding of each speculation before she finally gleaned some semblance of the truth. That Isabella had been with a man. The mark Edward's bite had left on her throat thought to be some juvenile interpretation of a hickey. That made him laugh out loud, the sharp bark of sound almost carrying to the house and its open windows.

The laugh died instantly when the girl's vapid mind began playing a veritable roster of possible lovers, from several mutual friends to men he took to be wishful, would-be suitors. Finally she narrowed it down to Mike Newton, or Bella's ex-suitor, Jake.

Hope as he might, Jess's thoughts would not stay on the ex, frustrating him greatly. He caught the vague image of a young man, largely built with dark hair and eyes and Native American features, before the girl allowed her thoughts to wonder off topic.

He would very much like to know more about this boy...

Those images of him prompted Edward to move into the house on silent feet once the friend left and Isabella slept, entering through the bedroom window to leave the bracelet he'd taken from Mike Newton on the pillow beside her.

He wanted her to know he was there.

He wanted her to know he was watching.

Edward shifts in the tree, restless. It pleases him to know that when she wakes the bracelet will serve as a reminder of who she belongs to. He mulls over his next course of action, deciding that for the time being, Isabella can continue to use this Jake as a scapegoat if she chooses. It certainly suits him and their current situation if she wishes to lie to others, but he won't allow her to lie to herself.

No, she needs to remember him and his warning, especially if she wants this Jake to live.

Dew begins to settle in his hair and on the shoulders of his jacket, glinting slightly in the fading moonlight. Edward drags in the scents of the woods, damp earth, and the telltale smell of human life, all of it vaguely familiar. As it should be, despite the years that have passed by in the interim. He did live here in this tiny town once upon a time. Well, not really him, but the shadow of who he used to be when he still followed his maker's rules and lifestyle. Long ago when he had sought to be a son and a brother in some laughable charade of mortal mimicry.

He scoffs now at that life, even as he feels the buried, hollow ache of loss for those he abandoned re-emerge. He has, in truth, been lonely for a very long time so the feeling is nothing new. Even before he forsook the ties of those whose affections bound him to a lifestyle he failed to master, he'd lived as a singular entity, miserable and adrift. Eventually, when not even their love could bind him, he left, too tired of their facades and endless self deluding to keep up the pretences. Bitterness and apathy crept in and destroyed all bonds; as such emotions are wont to do.

Heartsick and weary to death of striving to be something he was not, Edward accepted his fate, embraced his true nature, selfish as those actions were, hurtful as they were to those who did not warrant such wounds. In the darkness he's wallowed in since, he has learned to live without light and without hope, knowing it was no less than he deserved, accepting his fate, too weary of the fight against nature to do, or be, anything other than what he was created to be. A monster, condemned to the dark.

And now? Light is being offered up to him on a decadent silver platter, and he is a starving being who can be denied no longer.

_Isabella... Sweet, enticing, Bella._

He drags in the perfect, throat searing scent that carries easily to him on the last vestiges of the night breeze, enjoying the burn that claws at him for satiation.

He is an abomination, and Isabella is the antithesis of such a thing. Perhaps, if a trace of something good remained inside him, he could turn and leave, race away to the other side of the world and bury himself in a crypt, let her live her little mortal life out fully.

Pity he has no soul...

Night shadows vanish under dawn's insistence. Edward shoves off his musings and slips down from the tree limb and back deeper into the woods. There is much to do in the coming days if he is to make Isabella his in more than claim only.

He takes the sound of her heartbeat with him, memorized perfectly in his mind, and as he moves on silent feet with immeasurable speed, he composes and hums an accompanying melody to its soft bass thump.

For the first time in his existence, Edward Cullen looks forward to the days ahead.

. . . . . .

Jake slams the door on the truck shut, jamming his keys in his pocket as he makes his way toward the diner, whistling quietly. A slight grin plays around his mouth as his stomach snarls happily at the prospect of the late lunch slash early dinner ahead. He skipped breakfast unintentionally, and he's starving now; not that he's complaining.

He arrived at his shop a little early this morning, even before any of his mechanics were in, quickly grabbing and chugging a cup of rot-gut coffee as he made his way through the silent garage to his office. He'd planned to grab some paperwork and head to the coffee shop across the street for some real java and a quick bite, but he was waylaid by the sight of Leah's perky ass bent over his filing cabinet. A complimentary comment, and his patent 'come hither' smirk, got her to sashay that ass his way, dropping to her knees and undoing his belt buckle with her own matching smirk. He forgot all about coffee, paperwork and breakfast the second that same pretty mouth swallowed him whole.

Leah gave head like a pro, and the fact she wanted nothing to do with commitment or rings or any other relationship trappings - with him at least - made them a good match. For now, anyway.

After he laid her out on his desk to give back as good as he'd got, it was time to earn a living. The doing of such making him miss lunch as well, which explains why he feels like he could eat a horse.

Jake's smile fades as his long strides eat up the short distance of the parking lot. Thinking about his 'fun' with Leah is a dual-edged sword. Good as it is with her, it's still just sex, and thinking about that only reminds him that while he may not want commitment with Leah, he used to want it with someone else.

The thought is just born when the best friend of that 'someone else' slips out of the diner's exit door.

Jessica Stanley looks up at him with a surprised expression that rapidly turns smug and amused. Her pretty blue eyes light up like she's in on something secret and dying to bust it out.

Jake narrowly avoids rolling his eyes. She's hot in a girl-next-door kind of way, and when she's not in full on bitch mode, she can be all right. But personally, Jake has had too many run-ins with her when she was sticking her nose in his relationship with the very girl he was just thinking about to consider her a friend.

"Well, well. If it isn't Jacob Black." She smiles like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.

"Jess," he greets, wonders what's up with the look.

"I was just talking to Bella." She holds up her little pink cell phone before his eyes can give him away as an overeager sap by darting over her shoulder and looking for Bella in person. He should know better. Bella hates the diner. Seeing as how she's a fantastic cook, he didn't care that she never wanted to come here when they were together. He feels a prick of guilt over that thought. She was always cooking for him. He should have taken her out more...

Jess breaks into his remorseful ass kicking with a wink as odd as the grin. "She said she's feeling better."

_What?_

He frowns down at Jess. "Is she sick? Shit. Don't tell me she hurt herself again..." Bella tended to be as accident prone as a day is long so it wouldn't shock him.

Jess laughs with a little eye roll. "Yeah, right. Like you don't know, Romeo."

_Romeo? What the hell? _

"Jess, you're standing between me and a meal I've been waiting all day for. If you've got a point, make it. Did something happen to Bella?" His heart gives a sharp kick at the thought, even as he doubts it's serious, what with Jess smiling the way she is.

Her smile falters, and she holds up both hands in a mock surrendering motion. "Fine, play it your way. Bella wasn't coughing up any details about your little 'interlude' either." She uses her already raised hands to make quotation motions with her fingers to emphasize the word 'interlude'.

"Not that she needed to," she adds, laughing and shaking her head. "That giant hickey you left on her neck told me all I really needed to know." Her nose wrinkles a little, a cute expression of disgust flitting over her face as she playfully shudders. "God knows I still need therapy from the memory I have of walking in on you two at Lauren's infamous birthday bash last year, so I could have done without this new little visual. Really, Jake, you're like a dog marking his territory. Didn't you grow out of hickeys with the rest of us in the tenth grade?"

She snorts as she looks away from him to tuck her cell phone inside her purse and rummage for her car keys, missing his expression. Which is probably a good thing as it quickly went from confused to pissed before he schooled it into something more neutral in time for her to look back up.

He hasn't seen Bella in almost two weeks. Hasn't even talked to her since she dropped off a box of his shit that he'd left behind in the house and they ended up getting into a spitting match over some dumb thing or another. But _someone_ obviously has seen her and talked to her. A hell of a lot more than just seen and talked, if he's deciphering the innuendos pouring out of Jess's mouth correctly. And he's pretty damn sure he is.

His expression might be neutral, but if Jess looked down she'd see the veins and tendons sticking out of his forearms in rigid ropes as his hands curl into fists.

"Listen, Jake. A word of advice?" She shoves her purse back on her shoulder, her car keys clenched like a weapon as she uses her free hand to punch his shoulder, only half playfully. "I'm all for you guys getting back together if that's what the other night was, but don't screw it up this time, okay?"

He's saved from having to form an answer when Angela Webber comes up behind her, asking if Jess is ready to go with a polite smile his way. He does manage to grunt a suitable sounding good-bye before spinning on his heel and heading back towards his truck, hunger completely forgotten. A heavy foot on the gas spins the ancient Chevy trucks rear wheels, spitting gravel and dust in its wake as he races out of the parking lot and heads in the direction of his former home and ex-girlfriend.

. . . . . .

The first thing he notices when he arrives on the front porch is a loose board on the third step. The second is that Bella's got the screen door locked, which means only one thing. The lock on the main door is busted. He mutters a few profanities as his fist hits the chipped and peeling paint on the door's frame in a rapid, staccato knock. When he lived here with Bella, the place was a rundown shit hole, but at least it was a safe rundown shit hole. The fact she has a busted lock nearly pisses him off as much as the _thing_ he hasn't allowed himself to think about since he raced out of the diner parking lot.

Bad luck has always been attracted to Bella like metal to a magnet. She knows it as well as he does, and still she leaves it a fucking open door to walk through like an engraved invitation.

He waits till the count of ten and then snags the spare keys she still keeps under the flower pot, though he bitched her out a hundred goddamn times to quit doing it. He uses the smallest one to unlock the screen door, not soothed at all that she at least engaged its latch. A two year old could break that flimsy thing. He spins the knob on the inner door, frowning when he hears the sound of something loose rattling around inside the locking mechanism. What the hell could've done that?

He's barely two feet past the threshold when Bella comes around the corner from the hall leading to the bedroom. Her hair is wet and dripping, and she's holding a towel, dressed in nothing more than one of his old football jerseys. Even in the gloom of the gray, late afternoon light that filters through those crappy Grandma style sheers they never got around to switching out, he can see the shape of her body. She's not wearing anything under it. Even as pissed as he is, he's instantly half hard with the dozens of memories he has of peeling that shirt off her.

Even though it's been months since she last let him touch her, he can still remember the way her skin felt and the taste of her in his mouth.

Fucking hell. The vivid memories and the sharp slice of pain they always bring, amp up his temper.

"Bella, why is the goddamn lock busted on this door, and why the hell didn't you call me to fix it the second it broke?"

"Jeez, Jake," she snarks. "Hello to you, too. Nice of you to knock by the way."

"I did knock," he snaps, letting the door close with a muffled bang and moving to stand in the middle of the room where he can see her better.

"Yeah, well, I was in the shower. And you don't live here anymore..."

"Is there someone else here?" He cuts her off before she can launch into boundary rules, like not letting himself in.

"What? No!"

Her answer is quick, but a tad defensive sounding. Flaring his nostrils slightly, he drags in air that stinks like she's got a giant bouquet of dead flowers rotting in a vase somewhere. She used to tell him he had a nose like a blood hound, and once upon a time, it used to amuse her. Once upon a time a lot of things about him amused her. Now he just seems to piss her off, and he knows he needs to be careful or she'll kick his ass out before he can figure out who the hell's been in their bed.

Shit.

_Her_ bed. It isn't their bed anymore. Hasn't been for longer than he cares to think about.

Regardless, someone's been in it. And not just it. Her. He's fucking certain of it. And not just because of what Jess said either. It's in the look in her eyes when she can't quite meet his, and in the sly way she's just pushed all her hair over to completely cover the left side of her neck. As though she wants to cover something like a hickey. A "giant hickey," to use Jess's descriptive.

"Look, Jake. I've been sick. I still kind of feel like crap, so can we do this some other day." She says 'this' like a curse, and he has to grit his teeth not to snarl something completely inappropriate. Now that he's looking, _really_ looking at her, he can see there is some ring of truth to what she just said. She's beyond pale, which is saying something for her since calling her fair-skinned would normally mean she had a tan. She also looks exhausted, the purple rings under her eyes pronounced and heavy. Tiny and thin, her little frame looks completely swallowed up by his old jersey, and he feels a protective tug of emotion mix up with his jealous anger.

"I'm fixing the lock on the door first, Bella. No arguing." He drops the keys on the coffee table. "And for the hundredth time, quit leaving these under that stupid pot. Everyone and his brother hides a damn spare key in places like that. It's the first spot someone with less than good intentions is going to look!"

Bella rolls her tired, gorgeous brown eyes and stalks off to the kitchen. He hears her mumble something about _him_ having the key and _his_ stupid intentions, but he ignores her, following behind and noting that she seems less steady on her feet than normal.

Jake grabs the old toolbox he left in the house for her to use, not that she knows how to fix anything, and watches her pour coffee in a mug. He could use a cup himself, but she doesn't offer him any.

"So Jake, what brings you here? Oh wait, let me guess. You were just driving by, and you spotted the busted door all the way from the road and had to swoop in and play Mr. Fix-it. Right?" She snorts at her own sarcastic humour, stirring more sugar in her coffee than any one person should ingest. He can never figure out why she drinks the stuff when she clearly hates the taste, needing to turn it into syrup before she finds it palatable.

He debates several lame excuses and discards them all in favour of playing it straight. He's too pissed and jumpy feeling to play games. The green-eyed monster definitely has him by the throat, but it's more than just jealousy that has him blurting out the truth. It's protectiveness and concern. For as long as he can remember, he's been trying to keep Bella safe. Old habits die hard.

"I ran into Jess at the diner," he states simply and evenly, watching her like a hawk to gauge her reaction.

"Oh?"

Her voice is deadpan, and if he were anyone else, she might be able to pull off the innocent, almost bored attitude she's trying for. But he's not anyone else, and he knows her too well. Her face stays calm, but her fingers shake just enough to make the spoon in her coffee cup clatter against the edges. Plus, she bites her lip, something she only ever does when she's feeling some kind of strong emotion. Embarrassed, frustrated or even his prior favourite, horny, though he'd bet money what she's feeling right now is the farthest thing from aroused. She's scared. Of what he's not sure. Him finding out she's seeing someone else? Fucking someone else? His temper is notorious, so it probably makes sense her wanting to keep him in the dark.

He forces his voice to stay calm. He has no right to be pissed, he knows that. Intellectually at least.

"Yeah. She seemed to be under the impression you and I might be getting back together. Or at the very least that we hooked up the other night."

This time the spoon doesn't just clatter against the cup. It falls out of her fingers and hits the table top with a clang, bouncing a few times the way silverware does, before skidding to the edge of the table. He catches it a second before it hits the floor and puts it back on the table, carefully.

"Want to explain to me why Jess is under that impression, Bells?" Jakes voice is even, calm, but she blanches anyway and takes a step away from him, shrugging a bit too emphatically.

"I don't know what she's talking about," she laughs nervously. "Was she drunk? I mean you know Jess..."

"Bella, cut the crap. Are you seeing someone? Is that what's going on here?"

She spins on her small, bare heel and levels him with a stony stare. The light in the kitchen is better thanks to the new window he put in last year, and he notices she looks even paler than he previously thought. The word ashen comes to mind, though he's damned if he knows where he picked up a word like that.

"And it'd be your business, why?" She instantly looks like she wants to take the question back, or at the very least rephrase it. It takes him a second to remember her issues with asking why. She told him once that she'd figured out there was hardly ever a good enough answer to that question, at least not one that didn't just lead to another round of why's. Asking _why_ she felt that way only proved her point, as he's never gotten a satisfactory answer out of her in all the time they've known each other.

"Never mind," she says, shaking her head at him sadly. "Don't answer that. I will. It isn't your business, Jake. You gave up the right to ask me anything when you quit listening to me and started listening to Charlie. Oh, and let's not forget the day you started screwing Leah Clearwater."

"Fuck, Bella. We've been through this... I never cheated on you with Leah." He slams his hand on the table, and she jumps a little before reaching up and massaging her temples. Her coffee has sloshed over the edge of the cup and formed a puddle beneath it. She stares at it like it has some answer to a riddle she's never been able to solve.

"Jake. Please," she pleads. "Not today, okay? Just, not today." She shakes her head at him again, and he's instantly contrite and a little worried. The Bella he knows has a quick temper, and if anything pushes her buttons it's the gray area surrounding the time they broke up and the first time he hooked up with Leah. He can admit that he wanted to stir up a fight. It's the quickest way he knows to get her to tell him about this guy she's doing. Pissed off Bella always loses her filter. But looking at her now, her shoulders slumped and her pale face pinched, he can see he isn't about to get answers. She's stubbornly inclined to keep secrets on a good day. Pushing her on a bad one will only end in a fight.

"Fine. Not today. But, Bella? I am going to ask again." Jake grabs the toolbox and heads for the door, fighting back the anger he can feel building at just the thought of what she's practically admitted to by omission. The thought of someone else touching her, fucking her, worse yet making love to her, makes him see red.

"My life, Jake. Not yours." Five words, so damn familiar. She spits them at him every time they argue. It makes him want to shake her till her head rattles right off her stubborn neck.

"We're not together any more. When are you going to get that through your head? My life, my decisions, my business. Stay out of it."

He turns around slowly and glares at her, though he keeps his tone calm. "I told you, Bella. Your life and your decisions are always going to be my business. I made it my business before we were a couple. I'm making it my business after. I'm not going to stop caring about you no matter how hard you try to push me away."

She looks like she wants to cry, and her arms go around her middle in a move he's grown to hate over the years. Because no matter how many times he's tried to fool himself into believing different, he knows why she does it. Bella's never been truly happy in her life. Not before him, not with him, and now, not even after him. There's something inside of her that's empty. Some cavern or well of space that he never could fill, no matter how hard he tried.

And fuck. He tried.

Jake puts down the toolbox and goes to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead and rubbing her shoulders gently, feeling that all too common stab to his heart whenever he lets his guard down. He's going to love her for the rest of his life, whether he wants to or not, whether she's his or – God fucking forbid – someone else's. It's like breathing to him now, and seeing her in any kind of pain shreds him up, makes him want to lay the world at her feet like the stupid pussy-whipped schmuck he's always been with her.

"You look like shit, Bells. Go lay down, okay? I'm gonna fix the door, and I'll lock it on my way out."

She nods, and it takes everything in him not to pull her close, tip her head back and devour her mouth. Remind her how good it used to be between them before it all went to hell. As she turns and walks toward the bedroom, he silently curses the day he fucked everything up and lost the right to follow her.

. . . . . .

Her head pounds and Bella wishes she'd brushed her teeth before she crawled back into bed. The coffee left a bad taste in her mouth, and listening to Jake fix her front door is leaving another one.

Typical Jake. Always swooping in and fixing...her. Or trying to, anyway.

She curses internally, thinking of Jess and her big mouth. She hoped Jake wouldn't hear any part of their conversation last night, but with her head less convoluted now, she realizes how naive that hope was. In a town the size of Forks, it was only a matter of time before Jess and Jake ran into one another. Jess's penchant for never really knowing how to shut up meant Jake getting an earful was unavoidable. If Bella had been in better shape, she might have thought all that out before she let Jess leave with the belief her mystery hickey creator was her ex.

_So what would you have let her leave here believing?_ She wonders miserably, not surprised when her mind comes up short on answers.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall has her closing her eyes quickly. She relaxes as much as possible, feigning sleep as she hears Jake quietly push open the bedroom door. She senses him there, watching her, and has the sudden almost overwhelming urge to push back the covers and invite him to stay.

She wants comfort, and loving Jake used to be so easy. Too easy. Like basking in the sun on a warm, lazy summer day.

At first it was good, being with him. Everything she thought she wanted and needed, but it didn't take long to figure out he was a placebo, not the real drug capable of curing the ache inside of her.

She feels that ache now, heavy and solid in her chest. A vast cavern of emptiness that has its own weight and feel. It's all she can do to resist the urge to wrap her arms around it in a move that never truly alleviates the pain. It's been there her entire life, worsening when she came to Forks and found it just as empty as anyplace else she'd lived. It never seemed to matter who she made friends with, or who she loved in Jake's case. She felt alone every second of every day. Like some part of her was missing. Some vital, missing piece that she couldn't identify.

Jake slips on silent feet farther into the room and covers her gently with the other blanket. Warm fingers brush her cheek, moving her hair off her face, and it's all she can do not to flinch away. The reaction is strange, especially seeing as how just seconds ago she wanted him to touch her, to hold her and make her feel safe. To enfold her in those huge arms of his and all that heat he always radiates in abundance.

Now that he's this close, she realizes she doesn't want it. Not at all.

As she listens to him quietly leaving the room, closing the door behind him, she realizes that what she does want is the very opposite of Jake. Where she once found surcease in his heat and unique brand of light, her body now aches in sudden spasms for a cold touch, an icy caress to cool the burn deep inside of her...

Bella's eyes open, and she loses the fight to keep her breathing even. It comes out harsh now, almost panting as something close to wonder and fear mingle for dominance in her thoughts. With her eyes glued to the fading washes of sunlight on her ceiling, she realizes there was a time when she didn't feel this cavern in her chest. A few brief hours when she didn't hurt inside with these all too familiar gnawings of pain.

For a few short moments, she did experience relief. The only problem is, she found it in the arms of someone she suspects is no white knight.

_Edward. _

Wrapped in sheets that still smell like him, she traces the bracelet on her wrist, the familiar stones cool and solid beneath her fingertips. The bracelet she lost in the club that mysteriously showed up out of nowhere, lying on her pillow when she woke in the dead of night. Her arms prickle anew with goosebumps, just as they did when she first saw it, and she wonders again what it means.

Was Edward here last night? Had he found this for her, left this for her?

Why?

As the shadows begin to fall into the corners of her room, her chest aches and her mind races even as her body loses the fight to stay awake. This all-encompassing fatigue is heavier and more demanding than anything she has the power to resist. As she drifts down into strange and twisted dreams, she has one last thought.

She can't want him, she can't need him.

She doesn't even know what he is.

. . . . . .

* * *

A/N - So, as you can see, Mike Newton is no more. Sick little man had some nasty secrets that Edward didn't like, and this Edward does not play nice. But was Mike's death warranted? I'm ever so curious to hear your thoughts, dear readers.

Jake…well. I'm not going to say much about him yet except that I hope you'll all keep an open mind. This Jake is _not_ the Jake from Twilight. He's older for one, and I certainly don't picture Taylor Lautner when writing. Nuff said for now. ;-)

I'm sure you all have tons of questions. Remember, slow reveal, but the pieces will come together. The important thing to keep in mind while reading is that this story is primarily based on what ifs. With a few twists of course. What if Edward and the other Cullens hadn't lived in Forks when Bella arrived? How would Bella's life - and others - have played out if Edward hadn't been there? As you've seen, some things have played out in her life that parallel Twilight. The accident in the parking lot, the attack in Port Angeles, Jake. But without Edward there, the outcomes are very different.

And of course, the most important what if. What if Edward never returned to the Cullens after leaving to hunt humans? Who would he be and how would he handle finding not only his singer, but someone who calls to his dark soul?

This story is how I've imagined the answer to those questions. Is it how you would imagine it?

Next chapter, I'm pulling the covers back on our yummy, scary Darkward. Time to find out what's making this vampire tick. ;-)

Until next time, thanks for reading.

Aleea


	5. Majaribu

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter 5

**Majaribu**

. . . . . .

_Helpless as it steals my soul  
I've lost all control_

_. . . . . ._

The house looks the same; Edward is surprised by this. The woman he once thought of as a surrogate mother has always had a penchant for architectural and interior design. She often altered the homes Edward lived in with his former pseudo-family members to one extent or another. Apparently though, even after all this time, she has left this one alone. It stands before him, battered yet preserved - a veritable time warp. He doesn't want to contemplate the reasons why she would leave this place untouched.

He moves silently through the tangles of long grass and weeds that choke the formerly landscaped grounds. The surrounding forest is encroaching upon the yard, as though seeking to reclaim the space that was cleared for the house. Edward finds a vague smile curling his lips at the familiarity that lingers, regardless of the overgrowth.

Splintered shutters, faded and weather-beaten paint, rotting steps on a previously grand porch, and still the home looks impressive and stately, even with the boarded up windows. Built in the mid 1800's and then refurbished and overhauled by Esme Cullen's competent planning and skill in the early 1900's, it is timeless in design despite its age.

When he opens the front door, vivid, unwanted memories spill out, wrapped in the smell of dust and the musty air of long unoccupied space. Memories of a time when he thought he could be what his maker and surrogate father wanted, of spending time with members of a family, trying to belong.

Family. Such a farce.

They were a coven of vampires playing a pathetic make-believe game of house, acting human during the day, striving to blend in, their diet meticulously planned and adhered to. If you could call a supplement of human blood taken from the willing yet unknowing donors that regularly visited the clinics Carlisle ran, combined with nights hunting in the woods, draining deer, bear and large wildcats, a diet.

Animal blood.

Edward vividly remembers that taste. Weak, pale sustenance with all the flavour and nourishment of dirt, it served one purpose and one purpose only. To curb the lust for the hunt and kill that is part and parcel of vampire nature.

Vegetarians, Carlisle Cullen labelled them with that wickedly handsome smile, all but patting them on the head with doting pride when they passed yet another hour, day, week, month, _year_, without slaughtering the luscious, flavour-filled townsfolk in their beds.

Doctor Carlisle Cullen. Coven leader, surgeon, family practitioner, caring, concerned citizen, determined to save human lives and not drain them away as vampire-kind is predisposed to do. His compassion and self-control remains legendary in the vampire world right up to this present day.

Even back then, with his wickedly sharp lancet and ever-present bowl, he was gentle and seemingly immune to the crimson juice that flowed freely around him. Soothing the patients he treated, guiding them carefully through the bloodletting process they all accepted as common practice in that day and age. And unlike so many other surgeons of that era, taking only what a mortal could easily spare before treating their real ails with medicines and advice much better suited to healing. Carlisle's patients rarely expired, which brought them in droves to his clinics.

No, there was no shortage of "sustenance" while Edward lived in Carlisle's shadow, but cooled, congealing human blood from a cup and warm tasteless animal blood couldn't slake a thirst like theirs. They lived in denial. _Edward_ lived in denial, until that one fateful day when it all fell apart and he could live in denial no more.

Carlisle's presence lingers in this house, Edward realizes as he crosses the threshold and enters rooms nearly empty save for a few pieces of old furniture draped in sheets. His maker, his creator, his father for all intents and purposes, has a presence that will not be denied, even in absence. He is in the empty bookshelves that line the south walls of the living room, previously cluttered with his endless collection of medical textbooks. In the faded shapes of paintings that used to hang on the walls, carefully accumulated over his nearly four centuries of life. In the cross-shaped shadow that lingers above the winding staircase where the only relic of his human life hung in a place of honor. No doubt it has a likewise worthy place of note wherever Carlisle is now.

Edward's mind and emotions battle in on themselves, former happiness colliding with current bitterness. It was all such a sham, that former life, that distant existence. One he could not live even though the others could.

Alice and Jasper, Rose and Emmett, his adopted siblings in this grotesque afterlife, had each found a way to live the lie from the very beginning. Still lived it to this day, though it has been so long since Edward last checked in, he can't be certain. No, that isn't true. He _can_ be certain. They would not forsake the life Carlisle created for them, no matter how difficult they might have found it, or may _still_ find it. Only Edward has done that.

He continues his exploration, moving on silent feet through empty rooms until he reaches Carlisle's former study. An old desk remains, the antique wood warped in places from the endless damp weather. A few dusty, molding old books sit forgotten on the shelves. The smell of them, even corrupted by time as they are, wafts into Edward's nostrils and evokes another memory. Here, in this very room, Edward spoke with his father for the last time over a century ago. He stood on this same rotting carpet when it was still whole and placed a metaphorical stake through the patriarchal vampire's heart. Memories wash over him, taking him under, pulling him back to those last moments...

"_I can't live like this. Pretending like this," Edward sneered, pacing in front of Carlisle's desk. "It's too difficult."_

"_Nothing is too difficult, son." As always, Carlisle's mind was filled with his usual abundance of understanding and patience. Useless emotions that had begun to smack of condescension to Edward. "It's only been days since the unfortunate...incident. Your eyes are still red; the blood still clouds your thoughts and actions. Give it more time."_

"_Unfortunate incident?" Edward stared at Carlisle who sat so calmly behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, looking so utterly, pathetically reasonable that it was all Edward could do not to walk out. "Is that what you're calling it today?" he asked, bitterness and frustration breaking the reins of his normally impeccable control. Years of denying his true nature combined with one irreversible moment had brought the entire facade of normalcy crashing down around him like a weak house of cards. _

"_I slaughtered an innocent girl, Carlisle, a near child, merely because she had the misfortune of crossing my path with knees and hands scraped raw by a tumble from her bicycle. A tumble she took because _my_ presence startled her." Edward's rage grew with each word and with each sympathetic expression that crossed Carlisle's face. Especially since the sympathy Carlisle felt for the girl extended only so far, while his sympathy for Edward's plight seemed limitless in contrast. _

_He saw her death as tragic, but at the end of that day, she was an expendable casualty to him. A minor hiccup in the ongoing war his children waged against their base natures. Her death did not signify the loss of the battle to his thinking. It was merely a tactical mishap, an opportunity to reconfigure, regroup, and define new parameters. _

_Carlisle's thoughts centered on moving, starting fresh somewhere else. Edward's rage grew at what he saw as Carlisle's cold disregard for the life he'd drained away. _

"_She was sixteen, Carlisle!" Edward's voice careened loudly through the room, bouncing off the acoustical woods and brass lamps with their cut glass shades, amplifying the sound of it until it rang in his ears like bells in a church tower. A call to prayer said too late to save an innocent life._

"_Giving in to your bloodlust won't bring her back, Edward. You'll only add to your sins."_

"_You're wrong." Edward tilted his head to the side mockingly. "Continuing to _fight_ my bloodlust will __ensure__ I'll add to my sins. How many more innocents will I slaughter, Carlisle, while I try to fight what I am? What _we_ are. When a young mother on a corner steps by me with her babe in its pram, and the badly bandaged cut on her finger alerts me to her blood, what will I do? Perhaps I will let her pass, or perhaps I will leave her babe an orphan. Or will I even let the child live? What will stop the monster in from making her infant dessert?"_

"_You will stop yourself, Edward. You are no monster." Carlisle, as always, kept his calm._

_Edward, however, saw beyond the patience and straight into the heart of Carlisle's thoughts. For a brief, unguarded moment, Carlisle easily envisioned the scenario Edward had just played out for him. He tried to suppress the thoughts, but the images his mind conjured at Edward's description came with the sharp smell of concern and fear, too ripe with possibility to deny. Not then with the death of the girl hanging ominously over all their heads, stabbing not just Edward's conscience, but Carlisle's as well. _

_Sins of the father, sins of the son..._

"_You're right, Father." The title was delivered in snide tones, full of the anger Edward was beginning to feel at the man who had so carelessly and selfishly made him what he was. "I will stop myself. But not in the manner you would force me to."_

"_I will not, nor have I ever forced you to anything, Son." Carlisle's voice tried for gentleness and failed, something of his suppressed anger and frustration finally breaching that implacable, unflappable belief that Edward was essentially good and still, despite what had happened, redeemable. _

"_You have forced me, guilted me, into this mockery of a life you lead, but no more, Carlisle. I will not slaughter another innocent because _your_ lifestyle has made me weak."_

"_What will you do?"_

"_The child I killed, her thoughts were not only of death when she passed, but of her life. It would seem I was not the first monster she encountered, only the last. Her eldest brother crept into her room for years to slip his hands beneath her bed coverings and nightclothes. Instead of waiting for my control to snap, I will feast on things nearly as evil as myself. I cannot give her back her life, but I can ensure its loss was not completely in vain."_

"_You would make yourself judge and executioner?"_

"_Yes."_

_The silence stretched out between them, Carlisle's mind nearly blank with his surprise. "You will be no son of mine if you choose this path," he said. The sadness and disappointment in his eyes meant nothing to Edward, and that lack of feeling cemented his decision. _

"_I have never been your son." Edward spoke disdainfully. "I'm something you coveted and stole. A means to end your loneliness with no thought to the suffering you'd impose or the consequences of your actions. Be grateful enough of your compassion clings to my skin that I'll choose to play judge and executioner rather than feast on the sweeter blood of innocents."_

Edward left, without a goodbye or even an explanation to the others. He left those to Carlisle, along with the cutting, psychological wound of his betrayal. Edward didn't even pause long enough to touch Esme's cheek in passing, the lovely vampire who could have been his mother for all her gentle patience and sweetness. No words to the siblings of that life. Only his back as he walked away and slowly became...this.

Edward lets the ghost of those memories tug at him. As always he feels the sting of regret mingle with the anger he still has not let go. Carlisle had condemned him to this fate by selfishly creating him to abate his own immortal loneliness, and for that Edward hates him. But he'd also shown and given Edward so much more than just this curse. He gave him family and love and acceptance. Or he had, until that moment the son and father could no longer see eye to eye, and Edward spit upon the core of his sire to walk away and wallow in blood.

Yes, Edward muses, there are regrets. Life has been emptier, and the wounds his leaving might have caused do not sit easy on his lagging conscience. And still, he cannot think his choice was wrong.

No, their way of life is not for him. He does not have that kind of restraint, has no real reason to even strive for it. His existence has always been solitary, lonely. He accepts it. At least this way he has some purpose.

He shakes off the unwelcome anamnesis of those he left behind and carries the three books he's found into the large main living area. He drops them inside an ornately mantled fireplace. Dried, dead leaves and the remnants of a bird's nesting materials have made their way through the chimney to gather on the fireplace floor. Edward uses them as kindling, scraping his fingernails over the cool, scorched-stone interior, creating a shower of sparks that ignite what nature left behind. The books begin to burn, smoking heavily. Edward opens the flu; the last remains of the vacant nest and more desiccated foliage fall and add fuel to the flames. The smoking pages begin to blacken and curl. Edward leaves them to their cremation and continues through the house, making mental lists of things he must do to make it habitable again.

Upstairs he finds his old room much as he left it. A rotting time capsule. A few of his more precious belongings are gone, doubtlessly packed and stored by Alice or Esme. Otherwise the room feels like a tomb, a burial place for his old life.

He pulls dusty, moth-eaten sheets off furniture and rifles through old, mildewed journals, snorting in disdain at the lame attempts he made to put pen to paper and document an empty existence. Thin, sinuous centipedes scatter from their damp shelters, seeking new places to hide as Edward upsets their domain.

He turns his attention to fragile pages of faded sheet music scattered across his old desk. Remnants of another time when he used music and the composing of it to escape unrelenting thirst and boredom. The melancholy drivel he sees outlined on the aged and partially disintegrating papers, curls his upper lip in disgust.

Such a sham, such a farce, such a waste of...

Edward's head cocks; snatches of thoughts not unfamiliar to him fill his mind to combine with the sound of someone driving down the overgrown laneway. He scowls. His peaceful meandering down memory lane is about to be interrupted by one of this house's former inhabitants.

Jasper Whitlock/Hale/Cullen. His psychic sister's empathic husband.

How fitting. Alice is still watching, and she's sent her mate...to what? Beg, cajole, plead, bribe, threaten? With a sigh, Edward turns and descends the stairs, back to the main room of the house. A former family member has come to visit. Far be it for him not to play the gracious host. At least until he decides to be gracious no longer.

. . . . . .

The sleek, black, Aston Martin Vantage is ostentatious and fitting for a Cullen. Fast cars were, and apparently still are, a frequent indulgence for his former family members. In that past life Edward also indulged his love for speed in a collection of stunning vehicles, but when he left, he took nothing with him, cars included.

Money has never been a problem for his former family members so the expensive vehicle Jasper drives is not a surprise. Apparently Alice's ability to psychically navigate the stock market and investment portfolios of her family members continues to pay off handsomely.

Edward mentally sneers in condescension. At the time of his leaving, he took only what had been in his pockets - twenty dollars and change, a handkerchief, and a small attractive stone he'd found by the river. With just that meagre amount, without help from anyone, Edward managed to accumulate a fortune that is solely his own. Amazing how a little gambling could stock a nest egg. With careful investing in everything from stocks to real estate, the nest egg has grown. Edward has his cold hands in many pies, and being nomadic and rootless only makes it easier. The end result is a current ridiculous fortune that can afford him luxuries he's never truly contemplated before today. Like all things, money and the amassing of it has merely been a hobby, a way to pass the endless hours between his next hunt and meal. A way to blend in the few times the need arose.

Now, as Edward contemplates such things, he realizes the money will be beneficial indeed. Keeping a human is going to require...things, purchases...not the least of which will be making this house human ready. Anything Isabella needs or could ever want is within his means to provide. He could build her a palace and place her on a throne if he wishes to.

Edward pushes aside those oddly pleasant contemplations and watches Jasper stretch his long legs out of the vehicle, rising to his full height. The man Edward once thought of as a brother is utterly unchanged in appearance, with the exception of his style of dress. Take away the modern designer clothing and it would be as though the century since they last laid eyes on one another never passed.

"Edward." Jasper's smile is expansive, the tone of his greeting warm. It breeches no ground, however, on his speculative thoughts that are shrewd and quick to judge.

_Red eyes. Alice is right; nothing has changed. Such a loss and a waste. Esme's heart is going to break. Again._

"Jasper." Edward's smile is nonexistent, his greeting cool and rife with unspoken warning. Jasper is empathic. His gift allows him to literally feel Edward's mood, making outward threats unnecessary. It also allows Jasper to impart emotions, making him a formidable adversary for those unprepared to disregard and deflect.

_Prickly as ever I see..._ "It's been a long time." Jasper exudes calm, pushing a wave of it at Edward while leaning his back against the car and crossing his legs in a casual stance, his arms in a slightly defensive one. "When was the last time we saw each other? Nineteen...oh three, I believe?"

Edward ignores the rush of affected emotion and the mockingly speculated date. Vampire memory is absolute, and the bait Jasper dangles is a weak effort at familiarity. Jasper has lived too long in the human world, and Edward has lived too long out of it, to play such infantile games or engage in needless reminiscing.

"Why are you here?"

Jasper mentally sighs. _Nothing is ever easy with you..._ His thoughts switch to reciting the Battle Hymn of the Republic in Swahili before he answers. "Does a brother need a reason to visit? This was once my home as well, after all."

The mental hymn recital is loud. It cannot block Edward's telepathy completely, but it clouds the waters of Jasper's thoughts, making him difficult to read. Edward smirks, refusing to be annoyed at such an old trick. Once in their former life his family members all made a game of attempting to find ways to block Edward from their thoughts. Jasper is the only one who managed to become reasonably adept at the skill. Not even he can maintain if for long, though.

"That translation leaves much to be desired in Swahili. Your creativity at attempting to block me hasn't improved in the last century I see. Stop playing games, Jasper. Why are you here?"

Jasper feigns interest in the scenery and disinterest in the answer he gives. As though he's bored and not invested in what he has to say. "I was sent to remind you of the treaty with the Quileute. Carlisle is concerned about your presence here breaking it. The reservation is strictly off limits, feeding or otherwise."

"I highly doubt you came all this way to tell me something you're aware I already know. But feel free to tell Carlisle his defunct treaty with an extinct race of werewolves is quite safe," Edward can't help mock.

The treaty, an agreement made stating Carlisle and his family members vowed to harm no humans and stay off Quileute lands in return for the werewolves leaving them in peace, and likewise staying off land owned by the Cullens, truly is defunct. At the time the treaty was created, there was only one remaining tribe member left who carried the shapeshifter gene, an epidemic of influenza having wiped out all the others. Ephraim Black, sole shapeshifter, barely more than a child and not yet used to phasing, was more than happy to avoid bloodshed by making a pact.

Thanks to the already weakened lineages caused by diluted bloodlines, which would have become more common in the last century, Edward is fairly certain it's unlikely any werewolves of Ephraim's line exist in this day and age. If there are any, he believes he would have detected their presence by now. Their unique stench isn't something he would miss, and the wolves were known to be territorial.

Of course, since the werewolf gene is only triggered at puberty with a small two year window – and even then only in the event of a direct threat by the presence of vampires – it is possible there may be an heir, just one that is untransformed. Since even an untransformed werewolf can be a threat however, Edward doesn't need Jasper's advice to know he needs to be wary.

He already spent a few hours watching the reservation for curiosity's sake when he first arrived in town, even before he found Isabella and made the decision to stay. After all, Edward was a part of the ridiculous treaty's formation in 1898, and he'd always considered the Quileute wolf shape-shifters an interesting anomaly.

He found nothing that would lead him to believe any roamed these parts, and the lack of attacks on his person verified this. They seemed to have been relegated to campfire stories veiled in the guise of legends.

"Tell me the real reason you've come," Edward demands, leaving memories of puppies behind.

Jasper sighs out loud this time, his expression narrowing as he drops the weak excuse and gets to the heart of his sudden..._visit_. "Alice saw you coming here. Saw you make the decision to stay." He studies Edward, his copper eyes hard. "And the reason why," he adds. Edward doesn't need the ability to read Jasper's thoughts. He catches the flash of disapproval mingled with curiosity that tinges the copper of that narrowed gaze with onyx. It's gone an instant later, wiped away by a grin that borders on true amusement and flirts with antagonistic desires.

"I suspected you were still feeding from humans, Edward," he continues, "but I didn't realize you were keeping them as pets now, too." Jasper's grin becomes a smirk, antagonism fully engaged. "It's been a while since I've fallen off the wagon, but if she's sweet and you're willing to share..."

The growl that erupts from Edward's throat lags behind the movement that carries him to Jasper, and the action that slams Jasper into the car hard enough to dent the quarter panel. His forearm presses hard to Jasper's throat, his hand to his chest, keeping him pinned. "Touch her, no – strike that – go near her, even _remotely_ near her, and I will tear your limbs off, then your head, and send them to my meddling sister in a box," Edward hisses. "If I don't burn it first."

As quickly as he executed the attack, Edward ends it, letting go and stepping away. He is wary, watching to see how Jasper will retaliate, but his former brother only straightens his clothing, smirk still present, unaffected by Edward's hostility.

"Protective of your food? You do realize humans are abundant, Edward."

Back in control of his actions, Edward merely replies coolly. "What I do is none of your business. It's time for you to leave. You should have known not to come in the first place. Give Alice my regards."

Jasper's smirk vanishes at this, the hymn he managed to continue in his thoughts breaking off mid-verse, anger, not only in his mind but reflected in his gift, radiating off him in waves. "I won't give her _'your regards.'_ She deserves more than that from you. I know she won't get it, but you can be damned if you think I will play a part in how you hurt her, you selfish asshole."

It's Edward's turn to smirk. "Protective as always, I see, even when she sends you on these useless, fact gathering missions." He shrugs. "It doesn't matter what you tell her, Jasper. I made my choice a century ago. You should help her accept it instead of coddling her dependency on me."

"Dependency? Is that how you view family and love now, Edward?" Jasper shakes his head, his disgust apparent in his thoughts and the emotional waves he emits to stain the clean air. "You know we've all held out hope that you would change. Realize how empty and pathetic this choice you've made really is. Alice most of all."

He gestures to the house, his mind running back through the past. "You screwed up when you killed that girl, Edward, and I know it did something to you, broke something inside of you that was already cracked, but this?" The subject of his gesture changes to put Edward in its spotlight. "What you are, what you've become? It's not you, not really."

"Don't tell me who I am!" Edward's hands curl into fists.

"Do you think I never regretted a life I took?" Jasper continues, ignoring the state of Edward's temper. "We've all suffered failures, Edward. The choice we made to not kill humans isn't easy, but it's worth it..."

"Spare me the psychology lesson. You know nothing of my choices or the reasons I make them. That girl merely tipped the scales in making me realize what a dangerous farce the lifestyle you choose to tout to me is. I lived it. I know. And the failures you speak of, I've watched take place. Not just in myself, but in all of you, with the exception of Carlisle. Or have you forgotten the bodies I helped you bury, _brother_?" The word brother is spoken with derision strong enough to steal the last of Jasper's patience.

"You don't want to compare body counts with me, _brother_," Jasper snaps in reply, painting brother in a matching tone to Edward's. "I haven't spent the last one hundred years in merry murder."

"No," Edward acknowledges softly, lethally. "You haven't. And yet, I wonder. Were we to compare innocents, how would our tallies fare then, Jasper Whitlock?" He watches the other vampire draw back physically as though struck. His past life before Alice – before Carlisle and the ridiculously named 'vegetarian' way – is stark and present knowledge between them. Edward's use of Jasper's true surname is evidence.

Ah, the wounds one can inflict when secrets have been shared between those who once claimed love between them. Jasper's time as a soldier in a vampire army, killing humans and vampires alike, could not be rivaled in its brutality and body count, not even by the most blood-thirsty of their kind.

Edward watches his barbed accusation bite deep and feels nothing more than mild justification.

"Like I said, we all have our personal regrets." Jasper gathers himself; the emotional air he exudes now is icy and reserved as he stands straight, regarding Edward with a look of pity. "The difference is, I've laid my ghosts to rest, made my peace and chosen not to be a slave to our nature. I live. I feel. I love. I spend every day holding the mate I adore, without regret, without hate. You? You're nothing more than a walking corpse. Cold and dead, inside and out."

Jasper looks around, and Edward can see in his mind the way those eyes take in the emptiness of the dark house and the overgrown mess of neglect growing rampant around them. It all screams abandoned, alone, and he feels that niggling at him as Jasper's thoughts play out the warmth and light he left to come here.

"Say what you will," he continues, softer now, "justify it as you will, but at the end of the day, I will take my tally of deaths over yours any day in exchange for the peace I have now, and the family I love." He strides forward and holds out the keys to the car, dropping them. Reflex makes Edward snap out a hand to catch them before they hit the ground.

"Consider it a gift. Take it and the last bit of advice I'll give you." His feet move backwards, carrying him slowly towards the encroaching forest behind him. "You cannot change the past or bring back the life of the girl you killed without intent or malice. But if this innocent human woman you toy with dies at your hands – and it seems she will, Alice has seen it played out a hundred ways – that won't be an accident. Ask yourself if you can live with that kind of stain on your soul after you've touched her body, felt her pleasured response, heard her honeyed cries and tasted her kiss; for oh, yes, brother, you reek of her. Ask yourself whether you can live with _her_ death for you're out of room to run, Edward. If you cannot escape the ghost of a girl you did not know and did not mean to kill, how will you escape one whose body you've loved and whose death you courted?"

Jasper pauses at the very edge of woods, his last words thought and not spoken, each one accompanied by an image, a memory of Alice crying pale-red tears, looking lonely and sad over the last one hundred years since Edward left her. Hundreds of them, thousands, flickering with vampire speed through the vastly numbered channels of Jasper's mind.

Alice, the sister whose heart he broke in half when he turned his back and left her behind...

Jasper doesn't say his last words out loud. He just lets them slide through his thoughts, dark and heavy with meaning they couldn't achieve otherwise.

_I wash my hands of you, brother. The next time I come, it will be to make you pay for Alice's pain and then to end that pain once and for all. Better she briefly grieves your death than spends another century mourning your loss while you still live…_

Jasper vanishes into the dark on silent, swift feet, taking his images of Alice with him, but not the lingering taint of them. They remain, festering in the conscience Edward despises.

He turns and re-enters the house, returning to his room, drawn by evidence buried inside. In the top drawer of his old bureau, he finds his last journal. The yellowed pages are brittle. He turns them with care until he finds what he seeks. A newspaper clipping, its ink faded to a barely readable state. The artist's sketch of a heart-shaped face, still soft with the remnants of baby flesh, does no justice to the perfect, photographic-like recall of the girl's true image that he holds in his mind. He reads the words, though his recollection of them is just as perfect as the image.

**Missing Girl. **

**Mary Adele Lawrence was last seen riding her bicycle after leaving Forks General Store. Mr. Matthews, proprietor, says the girl was in to buy a small ration of flour for her Mother, and after accepting a stick of peppermint as a treat, left promptly to return home at around six in the evening. **

**She has not been seen since. Anyone with information on her whereabouts is asked to contact Constable Miller Hutchinson or the girl's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Lawrence, at their home. **

**A reward of fifty dollars is being offered for anyone with information that leads to finding Mary Adele. She is sorely missed.**

The last three words find a way to breach Edward's hard shell. The painful ache is sweet, and he relishes it. Holds it tight inside and lets tentacles of it burrow deep into his cold, dead gut. His reminder, his penance, his reason to never doubt or forget.

The picture does not do her justice. She was a pretty child with the bloom of womanhood just beginning to show, and he remembers her scent. So alive and lush, the way it slammed into him the second he stepped out and startled her.

Had he wanted to startle her?

He cannot say. Not then, not now. He'd blamed it on distraction. He was thinking of other things, but the excuse was weak then and weaker now. Vampire senses miss nothing, overlook nothing, are distracted by _nothing_...

Had he wanted to startle her? Had he wanted her to fall? To scrape away soft tissue and skin and free the blood he'd smelled rushing so hotly through those sweet, thin veins so he could see the purest color of crimson known to earth dot the ground at her feet? Fill his sinus cavity and his mouth and throat and lungs with the ripe scent of the very thing he resented being denied? Had he wanted more than just to see and smell? How close to the surface was the monster that day, any day...

Before his presence caused her fall, before his teeth ever sank into her throat, had he wanted her?

Edward traces the faded outline of the drawn image with no clear answers. His mind drifts to Isabella. There are no doubts there. He wanted her and he meant to act as he did, to take as he took. He discovered new wants in that taking, and he certainly _means_ to take more of both.

He wonders if Isabella is alive now because Mary Adele is not. Would he have found the strength not to kill her if Mary Adele never found her death at his hands, if that lesson was not learned?

Kill no innocents. Only their tormentors. He's spent a century atoning, seeking out the evil in others to feed the evil in himself.

He remembers his first taste of that evil. Mary Adele's pedophile brother, Clive Lawrence. His screams echo easily through Edward's head on command, blending briefly with the screams of his recent kill, Mike Newton. The would-be predator's screams make a lovely falsetto to the echoed and deeper baritones of Clive's pleas for a mercy that never came.

Yes, he has atoned.

Edward places the clipping back in the book and the book back in the bureau drawer among the residues of hatched spider eggs and the thin silvery threads of their webs. With one last look around, and one last mentally completed list of things yet to be done, he leaves the room and then the house, quick sure steps carrying him out the door.

The last of the daylight is fading. A warm wind stirs the dead leaves and debris that litters the dirt drive and pushes the cloud cover across a darkening sky.

Edward ignores the car and moves into the woods, his steps sure and quick.

He needs to see her. To touch her, breathe her, feel her, taste her…

Isabella. His reward.

His.

. . . . . .

* * *

**A/N Still a slow reveal but are you starting to see the picture take shape? Next chapter, Bella's carefully crafted world begins to fall apart around her as secrets are revealed, and Edward makes his presence known, again.**

**Just a few notes of interest on this chapter** – Bloodletting was a practice where a physician (in this case Carlisle) would cut open a patients vein, most often in the forearm, using an instrument such as a lancet – a sharp, pointed, two-edged surgical device. The patient's wound would be allowed to bleed freely for a period of time, often into a bowl or cup for easy disposal. This very common practice originated in ancient times and continued on until the late 19th century. It was wrongly believed to be therapeutic and beneficial in treating illness and disease. It also provided a rather convenient means of feeding for our fictional Cullens. ;)

Timeline - I've taken creative license here by making Forks Washington the dwelling place of Edward in the late 1800's up to 1903. In actual fact, Forks did not officially become a town on the map until 1945.

I've also taken creative license with the treaty formation. According to the Twilight lexicon, the treaty was formed in 1936 (which is why Ephraim is described here as very young) while the Cullens lived in Hoaquim. In addition to this, once again, creative liberty has been taken with Edward's age and the date of his change. As was made apparent in this chapter, he's much older in this story. More about that will be explained, later.


	6. Tentazione

**A/N** Hey everyone. It's been awhile. Many of you know - but for those that don't - I've been dealing with serious health issues and have been too unwell to write. I'm feeling better, but I'm still not 100% back on my feet. So, just to let you know, I'll be writing when and if I feel up to it, which means updates may be sporadic. Thanks for understanding.

Huge thanks to SaritaDreaming who pre-read this for me and helped tremendously with punctuation, grammar and well...just everything. :-)

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter 6

**Tentazione**

. . . . . .

_Temptation  
It never lets me down…_

. . . . . .

It takes Edward only a few minutes to arrive at Isabella's small house. The street is quiet as he ascends the porch steps and makes his way to her door.

The lock has been fixed. He smiles as a quick flick of his wrist, identical to the one he used the first time he entered, breaks the repaired lock easier than before. He can hear her inside, sleeping peacefully, and though he wants very much to lay eyes on her, he pauses, surveying the room before him and dragging in the scents in the air. Human food, dust, paint, fabric, chemicals used to clean, a touch of mould clinging to inner walls; it all combines with a myriad of ghost smells from former inhabitants and visitors.

His nose wrinkles, and his lip curls. A male was here recently. His odour lingers, and Edward pieces together the unique signature, both fresh and stale. He's been here often, his stench embedded in layers into the furniture, walls and carpeting. Edward can trace the most recent visit. The male spent time here in the living room, and in the kitchen. The tingle grows stronger in Edward's nose. Something familiar taunts him about the smell.

_Quileute._

Edward growls low in his throat.

The male is of Quileute blood.

Edward touches the front door and the lock, raising his fingers to his nose, inhaling hard. A strange burning ignites in his sinus cavity, a sensation that might have been a precursor to a sneeze were he human. The smell is unappealing, and he frowns. Something pertinent to the scent niggles at his mind yet evades his understanding.

Moving around the room, he drags the odour in deeper. At a shelf on the wall he picks up a picture. The sheen of glass covers an image of several people grouped together, posing. He recognizes Isabella clothed in a summer dress, her hair pulled away from her face. She is smiling, her arm wrapped around the waist of a tall male at her side with dark eyes and dark features. Handsome in a human way, powerfully built. His arm is around Isabella as well, his gaze on her, smiling with emotion that Edward only knows from reading it in the minds of others.

Love, adoration.

Isabella smiles at the camera, not at the young man by her side. Her smile does not reach her eyes, and she appears almost detached. It is for that reason alone Edward places the picture back on the shelf without destroying it. The depth of emotions he can see in the eyes of the young man do not appear to have been reciprocated by her.

His hand curls and uncurls. The desire to destroy the picture is perplexing. He understands the possessive feeling he has for Isabella, but this? This feels more like rage born of jealousy, for he can see and smell that this male is still a large part of Isabella's life.

He doesn't like it.

Jake. The name comes to his mind easily. This is the male Isabella's friend speculated upon. The scapegoat Isabella used to explain his mark upon her neck and her state of fragility after Edward took her blood and body.

The stronger and more present scent of this male leads Edward to Isabella's bedroom door. Upon opening it, he follows it to her bedside. One more inhale reveals that this Jake went no farther than this. Edward can still smell himself and their sex on her sheets. It pleases him that she hasn't changed the bedding. It pleases him more that it's his and her scents alone mingled there. She did not take the male to her bed, though he detects she once had. Most likely the male lived here with her, for a time, but no longer. He is a frequent visitor, though, and Edward's lips curve away from his teeth, a low growl rippling up his throat and over his tongue.

That will have to end.

Isabella stirs, her body shifting on the bed and turning slightly towards him, as though on some level she is aware of his presence. He watches her quietly, her chest rising and falling; the restful state of her body indicates deep sleep. She has kicked the blankets down around her feet, and she is dressed only in an old shirt that is ragged from wear.

She is beautiful, and she smells divine. His throat burns, his thirst a powerful call, but he can see the affects of their last encounter linger. She is fragile and weakened, and though she is recovering, to take from her now, even a small amount, could easily kill her.

No, he can wait. He will need to hunt soon, but her blood is a gratification he can and will delay in order to ensure its abundance. He cannot wait, however, to touch her. He uses one finger, sliding it down the exposed skin on her inner arm. She is so soft, so warm, so lush. He wants her. To drink from her, yes, but to taste her skin as a man and not a beast, to touch her body, hear her pleasured responses to his careful caresses, is a thirst and need of its own kind.

Isabella shifts again and sighs. His name passes her lips in a sweet, sleepy murmur.

"Edward."

She speaks his name so softly. For a moment Edward freezes, wondering if the silence of her mind has made him wrong about her state of sleep, but no, she merely settles with another weak sigh, her eyes moving behind their lids.

She is dreaming of him.

Exalted, he smiles, his finger continuing its path down her arm to the delicate underside of her wrist. Her pulse jumps, her velvet, ivory-cream skin prickling in a rash of tiny goosebumps. He can feel her blood just beneath the delicate tissues of her flesh. It seems to sing for him, its gentle susurrations musical and hypnotic.

_Il tuo cantante._ The phrase comes unbidden to his thoughts. He always thought it a myth that one human's blood could appeal more than another. Something unique, a rare gift to his kind, and more proof that she belongs to him.

"Tu sie il mio, Isabella." _You are mine_, he reminds her quietly. "La mia cantante. Il mio desiderio. Il mio possesso."

A small frown creases her brow, and he smiles as she utters his name a second time. There is a questioning tone to her sleep-soft voice, and he imagines she wonders when she'll see him again. "Soon," he tells her, drifting away from the bed. "Very soon, little one."

The urge to hunt has grown with the increased melodies of her blood and her sexual desire which seems to have bloomed with his touch. She whimpers again, growing restless as he moves to the door. He waits, suspecting she's awakening. When her eyes open, he allows her to see him, knowing her mind is still caught in the space between sleep and true alertness. She blinks, and in the time it takes those delicate lids to descend and ascend, he leaves, smiling as her heartbeat races and her intoxicating scent flowers with richer notes as adrenaline races over her.

Outside again, he drags the night air into his lungs and begins to hunt.

. . . . . .

The sun is hot. It beats down on her skin relentlessly, making perspiration run in annoying trickles down her spine and into the crack of her bum. A bead of it tickles her temple, and Bella brushes it away impatiently as she leans down to yank a weed that is deeply entrenched with long roots. The mid-August heat wave and unusual amount of sunny days have been wonderful for the late summer vegetables she planted, unfortunately though, it's also great for every manner of weed known to man. She works this one free by sheer will and diligence rather than skill, and finally stands straight with a groan.

Her back is killing her, and she has smudges of dirt everywhere. Her thigh muscles are starting to quiver with exhaustion, reminding her that while she feels a hell of a lot better, she isn't back to normal. Still, she smiles a little as she surveys the small patch of land in an equally small yard which constitutes her garden. The huge basket full of beets, parsnips and acorn squash she's collected are testimony to her success. All she has left to harvest are the herbs, and a satisfying feeling of a job well done makes her feel less guilty about calling in sick to work – again.

That is until she thinks about the stack of bills on her kitchen table. Bills the paltry sum of money in her bank account won't cover. Closing her eyes, she sighs and pulls off her gardening gloves, flexing her hot fingers before pressing them to her equally hot forehead.

With her eyes closed, it's so easy to remember and see...him.

_Edward._

She snaps her eyes open, a wash of irritation making her bite her lip. Damn it. Why can't she get him out of her head?

He's just a guy. A hot guy that blew her mind, but still, just a guy.

_Sure he is..._

She shuts that train of thought off fast. It's bad enough she can't stop dreaming about him. Worse yet that she woke up last night and could have sworn he was standing in her bedroom doorway, watching her.

Until she tried to blink the sleep out of her eyes and he was gone, leaving nothing behind but a strange, electric tingle over her inner arm, a racing heart, and the residual ache between her thighs left over from an erotic dream.

A dream that started out hazy and then quickly filtered into a stunningly clear memory replaying behind her eyelids.

Is it any real surprise that she woke from a dream like that thinking she saw him, felt the lingering effects of his cool fingers running over her body, smelled that insanely amazing cologne?

Despite the heat, Bella shivers. She tells herself it's because the sun has just vanished behind a lazy cumulous cloud, but knows damn well she's lying. Her skin hurts, her body aches and longs for something...more of him...God, please...

Why can't she get him out of her head?

"Ask the real questions, Bella," she scolds herself out loud, trying to shake herself out of this mood by...what? Talking to herself? She sighs and reaches down to pick up the shovel she discarded in favour of yanking at the weed with her hands. The wood handle is old and dry, and as her no longer gloved hands shift, she feels the stinging bite of a sliver pierce her palm.

"Shit!" Dropping the shovel, she uses her fingernails to pinch out the inch long piece of wood, wincing a little at the bright red dot of blood that appears in its wake. Grabbing her basket full of vegetables, she hurries into the kitchen and turns on the tap, placing her hand under the cold flow of water. The blood streaks away with a stab of pain that makes her grit her teeth. The second she turns off the faucet, a fresh crimson bead wells up in its place. Grabbing a paper towel, she presses it tightly to staunch the new flow, purposely looking away from the few spattered drops that show up so brilliantly against the stainless steel. She's never been a fan of blood, especially not her own. She feels dizzy and closes her eyes again.

Blood loss always makes her dizzy...

"Stop thinking about that!" she snaps out loud to herself.

"Stop thinking about what?"

Nearly jumping out of her skin, Bella's eyes pop back open, and she drops the paper towel. Her hand presses against her suddenly racing heart as she realizes it's Charlie that nearly gave her a heart attack.

"Dad! Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!"

"Sorry, kid. I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear me. Did you know your lock isn't working right?"

Bella frowns. "Jake fixed it, but I guess it..." She stares at Charlie, her mind unable, or unwilling, to fully digest how or why her lock is broken a second time. Instead, she wonders how she managed to not hear Charlie knocking or entering.

The pipes and plumbing in the house are old and the walls thin. Turning on water or even flushing the toilet is always a somewhat noisy affair, but Bella is honest with herself and realizes she didn't hear him because she was distracted with thoughts she shouldn't be having.

"What did you do?" Charlie reaches down and picks up the bloody paper towel, scowling a little, his voice sounding concerned and resolved all at the same time. Bella barely refrains from rolling her eyes. She snatches the paper towel from his fingers and presses it back to the tiny gash that stubbornly refuses to clot.

"Nothing; it's just a little cut from a sliver." She knows she's accident prone, but she's not a little kid anymore, and she doesn't need his practiced patience or another lecture on being careful. "What are you doing here?" She asks to distract him, not bothering to hide the irritation she feels at his surprise visit. Charlie has always been overbearing, and it's only gotten worse since her breakup with Jake.

Charlie's lips settle into a tight line beneath his thick salt and pepper moustache at her tone. "Do I need a reason to come and see my little girl?"

Relenting a little, Bella sighs and reins in her temper. "No, but it's the middle of the day, and you're obviously on duty." She gestures to his uniform and refrains from adding – and you've hardly been here at all since Jake moved out – and checks her hand instead. Still bleeding, damn it. She can smell the blood now – salt and copper and minerals. She presses the paper towel back to the wound, tighter this time, and moves to sit at the table. Now that she's out of the sun, she's aware of a light sting across her shoulders, telling her she's gotten slightly sunburned. Likewise, she can also feel the pull of muscles growing sore from the exercise of digging, lifting and pulling. She's tired and wonders if she hasn't overdone it. She still doesn't feel herself, still weak limbed and tired...

"You're white as a sheet," Charlie remarks, striding to her fridge and cracking it open. He pulls out her orange juice and rummages through the cupboards for a glass. He places it in front of her and pours one for himself as well, leaning against the counter. "Jake said you weren't feeling well."

Bella ignores the juice, gritting her teeth at that comment. Of course he heard it from Jake. Do the two of them even go a day without talking? She wants to ask him why he has to learn from her ex how she's doing instead of finding out by talking to her personally, but knows from experience where that would lead. Straight into another lecture about how stubborn she's being and not seeing what's best for her, _blah blah blah._

Charlie wants her back with Jake, and makes no bones about saying it any chance he can either. Charlie is old school. Charlie believes women need men to take care of them.

Charlie is a chauvinistic, overprotective, pain in her ass.

"I'm fine."

He regards her over his glass, which he drains in a few sharp swallows, looking like he doesn't believe her.

"That time of the month is all," she lies, smirking a little as Charlie turns red around the ears, his gaze refocusing on the wall behind her. Nothing shuts Charlie up faster than the mention of female issues. It's a good way to get him off the topic of her health, but not a good way to reinforce the image of her being a strong, capable individual. Charlie only sees menstruation and its symptoms as another reason women need to be coddled and looked after. He really should have been born in the 18th century.

"Ah...okay, well..." he clears his throat, and she drops her smirk quickly as he looks back at her, regaining his composure quickly. Too quickly, and she wonders if he believes her.

"Still haven't told me why you're here, Dad," she reminds him, more to distract him from speculating than out of real curiosity. Holding the paper towel to the small gash with her pinkie finger, she picks up the stack of mail she left on the table and begins to flip through it, using the perusal as an excuse to avoid eye contact. She's never been a good liar.

Grunting a little, he takes the chair across from her and runs a hand over his face with an odd expression. He looks...upset.

She drops the unopened envelopes, feeling a tinge of concern. "Is something wrong?" Charlie is the most stoic men she's ever known. It isn't that he doesn't feel emotion – he does – he's just not one to show it. That something has slipped past his guard, especially something that has him upset, is very unusual.

He studies her. There isn't any other word for it. His gaze is intent, probing.

"I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly." He holds up his hand to stop her from replying when her mouth opens, though, in truth, she isn't sure what she planned to say. Defend her honesty, demand an explanation? He continues before she can get her brain to explain her mouths intent.

"I'm serious, Bella. No smart ass remarks, and no getting pissed off. This is official, and I need an official answer, okay?"

Official means police business, and Charlie's tone has slipped into interrogator mode.

"O...kay." Her answer is hesitant and uncertain, but he only nods.

"Good then." He stalls, still staring at her in a way that makes her want to squirm.

"What, Dad? You're starting to freak me out."

He doesn't laugh or grin, or say anything that might make her feel less uncomfortable. Instead, he pulls out a pen and his black notebook, flips it open, thumbs through it to a fresh page, and fixes her with a hard look.

"When's the last time you saw Mike Newton?"

Bella startles at the name. Her job at Newton Outfitters store means she would normally see Mike often, but being unwell the last few days meant she hadn't gone in on Saturday to pick up her check, and she didn't go in for her shift today. Mr. Newton – Mike's Father – mentioned Mike was A.W.O.L when she called in, but that was nothing new. There's a reason why Bella holds the manager position at the supply store owned by his parents and not him. Between his so-called job procuring bands for Forks' only bar, and his general over-all lazy attitude, he only worked at the store when money was short or when he had nothing better to do. At the time, she didn't think much about Mr. Newton's comment, merely replied that she was sure he'd be back around soon, and gotten off the phone as quickly as possible. She's always tried to stay out of the Newton family drama, even though she felt sympathy for anyone having a son like Mike.

"What is this about?" she asks, trying to buy time. The last time she saw Mike was outside the bar, grabbing at her wrist and getting pulled off by...

"Never mind that for now. Just answer me. When was the last time you saw him?"

"I guess...Friday?"

"You guess?"

"No...um, it was Friday. Friday, around two."

"At work?" Charlie is writing, and she realizes he thinks she means two in the afternoon. She bites her lip, nervously. He's not going to like her answer.

"Uh, no. I guess technically it was Saturday morning, at 2 a.m." She's right about him not liking the answer. He snaps his head up from looking at his notebook, and she adds quickly to be clear, "Outside the Twilight Tavern."

His gaze narrows. Familiar with the disapproving look, Bella bites back an urge to babble and explain anything beyond the question he asked.

_I'm a grown woman_, she thinks angrily. _I have nothing to defend. I'm not a child. I'm 23, practically 24. I can go to a bar to watch a great band and have a few drinks if I want._

_I can also take home a strange man – emphasis on strange – and have mind-blowing sex without squirming in this chair like I did something wrong._

_I'm not a child. I just feel like one when he stares at me like that._

Charlie inhales hard through his nose then exhales just as hard. He slaps the notebook closed, leaning back in his chair.

"All right. Look." He levels another one of those penetrating stares on her. "I'm just going to come straight out and ask this. Are you and Mike Newton involved, romantically?"

Bella feels her mouth gape open, again, and the glass of juice she picked up merely to have something to occupy her hand, nearly falls out of it. "What?"

"You heard me, Bella. Are you involved with the Newton kid?"

"No. God, no! Jeez, Dad."

Charlie huffs and leans forward, still staring at her like he wants to see in her head. "I'm going to be honest with you here, Bells. I have reasons for asking, and some evidence that says you might be lying, the least of which is you admitting to being out with him at two in the damn morning."

Bella opens her mouth to further protest, but is stalled when he runs over any chance she might have by continuing in a hard, no-nonsense tone.

"I'm not going to harp on you about Jake. While I admit it's hard, I do – despite what you think - know that you're a grown woman. I get that you might date...or whatever." Charlie's face flushes red at this, but he doesn't miss a beat with his next words. "So, I'm going to ask one last time. Is there something I should know about you and Newton?"

She feels heat erupt in her own face, but it has nothing to do with embarrassment. Slamming the glass down on the table hard enough to slosh juice over the edges, she lowers her voice to a hiss. "No. I told you. There is nothing between Mike and me. We went to the bar to watch a band play. Ben came with us. Do you want to ask if I'm screwing him, too?"

She can't keep the venom from her tone, and Charlie's penetrating stare turns to a full on glare.

"Don't take that tone, young lady, and don't be so crass."

Bella snorts. "Then don't ask stupid questions. Mike is an arrogant, self-centered ass. I wouldn't date him if he was the last guy on earth. We went to the bar as a trio of _friends_ only. Mike did a disappearing act before the band even came on stage." She stops there, biting her tongue as she realizes she's quickly painting herself into a corner. If she explains much more of that night, she's going to have to tell Charlie about leaving, and about Mike grabbing her wrist. Which will then lead to her having to explain...Edward.

Christ. She can't do that. Panic swells up at the mere thought, and she gets up quickly, grabbing the glass and carrying it to the sink to dump out. She tosses the red splotched paper towel into the garbage, barely noticing that the cut is no longer bleeding. Grabbing a dish clothe, she quickly swabs the spill off the table, careful to avoid Charlie's eyes.

"What's with the third degree, Charlie?" Using his name instead of calling him dad pisses him off. She generally tries not to do it, but right now, she would rather he be irritated with her than paying any attention to her body language or facial expressions.

Charlie stands, tucking his pen and notepad back into his shirt pocket. She can't help looking up at him when he doesn't say anything. Instead of appearing angry, he looks glum.

"Newton's been missing for a few days now. Looks like the last he was seen was the night you're talking about at the tavern. I went to his apartment this morning to check it out, see if maybe he was holed up there, or if there was any indication of where he might be..." The glum look turns grim and then turns determined. He straightens his spine and gives her an inscrutable look with eyes that seem half sad, half angry. "I'm going to need you to come to the apartment with me, Bella. There are some more questions I need to ask you."

"Can't you just ask me here?"

Charlie is already turning and heading for the front door. "No. There's something you need to see first. I'll be in the car."

. . . . . .

Charlie drives in a silence that is broken only by the sporadic and staticky talk over his police radio.

Bella chews her nails nervously. "Can't you just explain to me what's going on?" she demands as he parks in a 'no parking zone' out in front of the three story walk-up of cheap apartments in Forks' south end. Newton has lived here for over a year, but Bella never visited. Seeing him at work and through their mutual friends was more than enough.

"This isn't something I can explain," Charlie tells her, already getting out of the cruiser, forcing her to follow, though she wants to dig her feet in and refuse like a child. She has a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she can't stop thinking about the way the night at the bar ended.

_Mike grabbing her wrist, using that annoying wheedling and slightly pissed off tone of voice, trying to get her to go back inside. Edward showing up out of nowhere, detaching Mike's hand from her wrist. Mike's grip was painfully strong, yet Edward made him let go with no effort at all._

She can still picture that strong grip clamping around Mike's. The way Mike's hand sprung open under pressure, hissing in pain, cursing and walking away, looking scared shitless despite the angry words he muttered.

"I asked Jake to meet us," Charlie says, breaking into her thoughts and jolting her back to the present. She immediately opens her mouth to voice a protest then just as quickly shuts it, knowing it's futile.

As if on cue, Jake's old Chevy truck rumbles around the corner. Charlie waves him over, pointing at the place behind the cruiser and gesturing for Jacob to park there. He turns back to her, shocking her by putting his hands on her shoulders. Charlie is not the touchy-feely type, and the bad feeling in her stomach grows.

"What is he doing here?" she asks, unable to hide her growing nervousness and irritation.

Charlie sighs. "I need you to brace yourself a little, okay? There's...stuff in there I can't quite explain, although I'm starting to get the gist of it now since you say there isn't anything between you and Newton. It's just...look, it's better to show you than to tell you, though damned if I want you to see this. Just...don't get upset or all worked up."

"Hey." Jake interrupts as he joins them, several lines in his forehead looking etched deep the way they get when he's stressed. "You okay?" he asks her, reaching out and putting his arm around her waist. Bella thinks about objecting to his proprietary touch, but after a second she settles for simply shrugging him off and stepping out of his reach.

"Can we just get this – whatever this is – over with, please?"

Charlie nods at Jake. The kind of nod that clearly indicates he's already explained things he's refusing to explain to her.

"You've told him everything, haven't you?" she states the obvious and rolls her eyes. "Why am I not surprised, Dad? Big old boys club and the little woman isn't invited in?"

"Bella, that's enough," Charlie barks. "I told Jake what's going on, yes, and I'll tell you, too. I'm not keeping things from you. It's why you're here. Just come inside, and I'll explain everything."

Bella feels chastised and manages to nod as she crosses her arms over her chest, protectively sealing in the ache that grows worse when she's confronted with the bond between Charlie and Jake. She knows she's being overly difficult, but she's tired, physically and mentally, of always being the odd one out, even with her own father. From the moment she met Jake, Charlie decided he was what was best for her. Even now, months after their break up, he wouldn't let that go and dragged Jake into everything. Not that Jake needed to be dragged.

She follows Charlie grudgingly, Jake right behind her, shoulders back, eyes looking around suspiciously. Like a body guard. She bites down on her tongue till it hurts, reminding herself she's too old to storm off and refuse to cooperate with their alpha male bullshit.

The stairwell of the old building is dark and rundown. The smell of cooking, old and new, combines nauseously with the smells of dirt, human sweat, and other things she would rather not think about. Bella concentrates on Charlie's back and not tripping. She's all too aware of Jake behind her, and it makes her feel trapped.

Charlie leads her to Newton's apartment. Bella knows she's been watching too many episodes of NCIS when she nearly asks Charlie why there's no police tape to duck under. There is a complicated lock with 'property of Forks Police Department' written across it attached to the door knob that seems slightly askew. She briefly wonders who broke the original lock before Charlie opens the door and ushers her in.

Inside, the air feels close and hot. Stuffy, with underlying scents of oil paints and something sickly sweet, like rotting fruit. The evidence of the latter is apparent when Charlie flicks on lights and she sees a basket of mixed, overripe fruit sitting on a table. The apartment is surprisingly clean. She isn't sure what she expected, but the normality of furniture nicer than her own and the simple layout that screams bachelor without being bland, isn't it.

Blinking, she looks around, noting simple beige walls, dark curtains and blinds. A TV, a desk, a small galley kitchen with dishes stacked in a drying rack on the counter, a few dirty ones in the sink.

"This way." Charlie turns right, leading her down a short hall. She sees a bathroom at the end, the door ajar, a small closet to the right is also slightly ajar. It looks like someone rifled through it. Charlie? One of his deputies?

Charlie opens another door to the apartment's only bedroom, but hesitates, blocking her view while looking at her over his shoulder. His glance passes over her and onto Jake behind her. Something unspoken crosses between them, and Jake's arm goes back around her waist. She doesn't object this time, and when Charlie moves away, unblocking her view, she's actually grateful.

It takes a moment for her brain to catch up with what she sees. At first, all she notices is an unmade bed, the only piece of furniture in the room, pushed against the far wall. No headboard, just a frame, box-spring and mattress. The plain sheets and dark gray comforter look like they need a washing. The faint smells of stale body odour and sweat confirm it, but it's the kaleidoscope of colours that cover every inch of wall space from floor to ceiling that quickly commands all her attention.

She steps farther in, and the kaleidoscope takes shape. Or shapes, plural. Photographs. Dozens of them – no, hundreds of them – in varying sizes, are plastered everywhere, some of them overlapping.

_Photographs._

_Of her._

Her vision swims, and Jake's arm tightens around her. The stale air of the room starts to feel fetid and suffocating. She can't make sense of what she's looking at and tries to focus on one picture at a time.

She sees herself, walking out of her house, her head down, hair half obscuring her face. Her gaze flits to another, and she recognizes the coffee shop she stops at most mornings before work. This time she was captured looking straight ahead. She was wearing sunglasses that day and they were pushed on top of her head, pulling her hair away so the photographer easily caught the small smile she gave a passerby.

_Another._ This one of her at work, unpacking boxes. How did she not know her picture was being taken?

_Another._ Leaving a restaurant in Port Angeles, Jess beside her.

_Another_. Her and Jake, taken over a year ago outside the house. Jake was holding the truck door open for her.

_Another._ Her and Charlie...

Shopping for groceries...

Getting out of her car...

Walking...

Talking...

Laughing...

In her garden.

Wearing a winter coat...

Wearing a spring coat...

In her bathing suit...

She cannot assimilate. There are too many. Hundreds of snapshots and gross invasions of privacy. Close ups, looking blurry and grainy, obviously blown up from a smaller size. Wide frames, dozens of different angles and backdrops, snatches of her day to day life frozen on glossy photo paper and taped to this wall.

Her eyes are drawn to blank spaces, the marks of tape that stripped away paint showing that at some point there were pictures there as well. She pulls away from Jake and touches those places.

"What happened to these pictures?" she asks, surprised that she can find her voice at all over the choking sensation in her throat. Her hands are shaking.

Charlie clears his throat, and she hears Jake shifting his stance, though they don't answer. Spinning on her heel, a sick feeling of being violated beginning to swamp her, she confronts the nervous glances of her father and former boyfriend as they evasively look at one another and then at the walls, the floor. Anywhere but at her.

"There are pictures missing. You can tell. Where are they?" Her voice is shaking as well, but she still manages to inject demand into the question.

It's Jake who finally answers. "We don't know, Bella."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" She can hear the hysterical tinge to her tone, unable to suppress it.

Charlie shakes his head at Jake before walking toward her. He puts his hands on her shoulders for the second time, and he gives her a slight shake. "Those places were blank when I got here. The apartment was searched from top to bottom and we haven't found them."

She senses something in the way he's speaking. Like he's being evasive. "What aren't you telling me, Dad?"

Charlie drops his hands and looks around the room. His features are tight, his skin pale. A muscle around his jaw jumps repeatedly, a tiny spasm that betrays just how upset he is. Finally, he looks back at her, his expression wiped purposely clean, impersonal cop persona back in place.

"We know Newton hasn't been seen since the night you were with him. Whatever happened, he never returned home from that bar. When I got here, I found the lock busted." Charlie rubs his forehead, something she's only ever seen him do during times of extreme stress, the only tell in his otherwise impassive look. "Someone broke in here recently, Bella, and whoever it was, they took those pictures."

He points at the wall, but all she hears is the words – 'I found the lock busted.' Her skin prickles and something cold settles in her stomach as more pieces of a puzzle that she doesn't want to solve, slide into place.

. . . . . .

* * *

A/N – Tu sei il mio, Isabella - _You are mine, Isabella._ Il mio cantante. Il mio desiderio. Il mio possesso. - _My singer. My desire. My possession. _

Thanks to Camilla10 for her help with the Italian.


	7. Versachung

**A/N** - Huge thanks to my pre-reader **Popola** whose wonderful feedback on this story always hits the mark and keeps me writing instead of wallowing in self-doubt. Humongous thanks to **Saritadreaming** who beta'd the hell out of this chapter. Before her magic touch there were rampant missing apostrophes, commas in all the wrong places, misused semi-colons scattered willy nilly... Sigh. You can all thank her for wrangling things into some semblance of order.

Want a heads up on updates, news about other stories I'm writing/posting, and just news in general on all my fics? Come follow me on Twitter. (Aleeab4u)

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter 7

**Versachung**

. . . . . .

_Temptation  
One foot in the ground..._

. . . . . .

Sunlight persists even through a canopy of trees, brilliant gold rays making their way past thick branches and heavy foliage to dapple the roof of the car in contrasting shades of light and dark. Such a bright day should've kept Edward home, but he merely donned sunglasses, trusting the tint of the Vantage's windows to shade and conceal him.

Not that there's any true danger in him being out. He takes a moment to smile with wry amusement at the common belief that the mythical vampire could be brought to a fiery end by the power of the sun. The idea is ridiculous and not born from fact. The sun can no more harm Edward and his kind than holy water, garlic, or wooden stakes to the heart. Neither does it weaken him, nor cause his skin to erupt in a glittery show in the laughable ways modern pop-culture has attempted to capitalize on vampire legends.

That isn't to say sunlight doesn't create aggravation for Edward. His vision is so enhanced extra light can be uncomfortable, hence the sunglasses. It also highlights the lack of imperfections in his physical appearance, which is why he prefers twilight dusk to sun-filled afternoons, and why he's glad the windows are tinted.

Edward's thoughts scatter as he watches Isabella step from her father's patrol car, relishing the sight of her. It was far too easy to sit watch outside of her house and then follow them to this location. He smirks darkly as he witnesses Charles Swan adjust his belt. The man's shoulders are back, his spine straight with the posture and swagger Edward has seen time and time again in law enforcement officials.

_Small town cop_, he thinks unkindly, his smirk turning to an expression of hostility. This is who has protected Bella over her lifetime? The cop's instincts are sub-par at best. He hasn't even noticed the expensive car idling less than a block away. A car that draws attention from the few pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk, not only for its obvious expense and sleek beauty, but also for the fact it screams outsider.

Edward burrows harder into Charles Swan's mind, disgruntled to find that closer proximity is not helping him read the man. While his brain is not as impervious as his daughter's, there must be some genetic component to Isabella's impenetrable thoughts. Her father's deliberations are not completely hidden, like hers. They are foggy, though, and quicksilver fast – like minnows darting around in murky waters, slippery to grasp and requiring more focus and concentration than Edward is accustomed to.

He isn't deterred. He's encountered this before, usually in the mentally infirm or the drug-addled. Such encounters taught him to delve deeper, and to interpret nuances of thoughts that may otherwise seem inconsequential.

Allowing Charles' thoughts to flow over him, not looking yet for meaning or substance, merely learning their quiet rhythm, Edward closes his eyes to shut out visual distractions.

The minnows dart, slippery and elusive. No matter; he is a patient hunter...

The murkiness begins to clear...

_...shouldn't have brought Bella here..._

_...she'll be upset by this. I knew she would never have been involved with that greasy Newton kid, but all those pictures..._

_...I need to be sure they weren't taken by consent..._

_...Jake needs to get here...None of this would have happened if she stayed with him..._

_...I don't know where that sick little bastard Mike is, but when I get my hands on him, he's going to wish he'd never been found..._

_...Bella's too pale..._

_...I should tell her it's all right. I won't ever let anyone hurt her. She knows that, doesn't she? She's my entire life, my world... _

Edward opens his eyes. He's found the rhythm, and while the clarity is still lacking, Charles Swan's mind belongs to him now.

He cocks his head, listening to the worried thoughts of a harried father, amused by the fact the man's thoughts do not show on his face or in his body language. He looks only mildly concerned, and Bella's expression of barely repressed impatience seems as much directed at her father as it does at the situation.

He gleaned from their conversation in Isabella's house that her relationship with her father is an uneasy one.

"I agree with you, Chief Swan," Edward says dryly to the vacant interior of his car. "You shouldn't have brought her here." Again, feelings Edward is unaccustomed to invade him. The desire to protect her, to keep her from any harm, is apparently growing. It not only extends to physical threats, but to those of her mental well-being as well. He saw quite vividly what Bella is about to be shown from the disgusting images in Michael Newton's mind, and he dislikes that it will undoubtedly upset her.

The only upside to this little event happening before Edward now, is that the large collection of pictures – well handled and in some cases obscenely desecrated by the cretin's saliva and spunk – are physical evidence to show Michael's unhealthy and psychosis-ridden obsession with Isabella. They are surely enough to damn the wastrel in the eyes of the law, and it only aids Edward if Charles Swan doesn't look too hard for the man who violated his daughter's privacy on such a sickening level.

Not that Edward is worried. He was careful to scatter the remains of Michael Newton in places they won't be found...

The sound of a loud engine, rumbling in an inconsistent way synonymous with older vehicles, heralds the appearance of Jacob Black, ending Edward's pleasant remembrances abruptly. His hands clench hard down on the steering wheel, and he hears the casing crack.

_Jacob Black. Born to Rachel and William Black. Current age: 23. Siblings: two, both female, older. Owner of 'Black Automotive' in Forks Washington; a business purchased with the inheritance bestowed to him on his 18th birthday from a trust fund formed with his deceased Mother's life insurance. Money bequeathed to him by his still living, yet wheelchair bound father, William, better known to friends and family as Billy Black._

_Jacob Black – direct descendant of Ephraim Black, the last known werewolf in this part of the world. The same werewolf who once created a treaty between Edward's former family and the natives of the Quileute reservation._

Edward has done his research.

Unnecessary as they are to him, Edward appreciates very few modern conveniences with the exception of fast cars and the insidiously evil, yet helpfully expedient, internet. That particular invention allowed Edward to delve into the history and statistics of anyone he has thus far perceived to be a part of Isabella's life, with efficient results.

Dry statistics, however, are no match for the keen eye of a vampire who perceives this Jacob Black – son, auto-mechanic and genetic enemy – as a threat to the girl who is rapidly becoming the center of Edward's existence.

He calms himself now by focusing on her: Isabella. Even from here in the car almost a block away, he can see her fragile, lush form, her alabaster skin. He can smell her decadent fragrance carried sweetly on an otherwise repellent breeze, redolent as it is with the smells of a trash can near the car, and worse, the bitter, nostril burning smell of a should-have-been werewolf. Edward understands now why the smell in Isabella's house seemed so unappealing. Shape-shifters always stink.

Isabella's lush scent can't completely ground him when the puppy puts his arm around her waist, asking her if she is okay, like he has some right to her answer, or to touch her. The steering wheel cracks again, forcing Edward to take his hands away before he renders the vehicle useless for driving. He curls them into impotent fists on his lap and growls low and vicious in the back of this throat. The sound is feral and ripe with possessive fury.

The sound carries despite the quiet volume.

Edward watches the pup's head turn, and Jacob Black's nostrils flare slightly before the bridge of his nose crinkles. The amusement Edward feels at the confusion on the pup's face helps to temper his anger.

He knows that Jacob Black hears him and smells him, but the dog has no experience, no knowledge with which to understand and interpret the clues of Edward's presence. He is less than a pup. He is a mewling, weak runt of a nearly defunct breed, and he attributes the sound of Edward's growl to a nearby dog.

Edward tamps down his amusement at this and watches more intently. Jacob Black may be a stripped bare runt without the power to transform, but that hardly makes him harmless. Edward is not so foolish as to disregard him entirely.

Even untransformed, a mortal that carries the werewolf gene – especially a direct descendant – will be physically stronger, faster, and even more noteworthy, have instincts and prey-drives honed by the creatures who spawned them. Mutants they may be, but at the heart they are the same creature.

_Wolf. _

And this particular breed of wolf hunts only one thing.

_Vampire._

No, Edward has no intention of underestimating the dog, especially since he doesn't yet know how ignorant Jacob Black is to what lurks untapped within his genes.

Michael Newton was no threat to Isabella in comparison to this man. It appears Edward's little pet is a magnet for danger.

Edward watches them enter the building and forces his concentration back on task. He turns his attention away from Jacob Black, whose thoughts sicken him with the longing and concern he has for Isabella, and delves back into the thoughts of her father.

. . . . . .

He waits until they've entered the apartment building, restraining his desire to jump from the car and rip the arms off Jacob Black who unwisely touches Isabella, _again_.

Sticking to the meagre shade of the sparse trees planted on the thin boulevards, he makes his way to the front entrance.

From the car he caught a scent that needed to be explored. His ire rises with each step, and the confirmation of what he suspected.

The scent is familiar.

Edward scans the area, but the trail is faded, old, and nothing else was left behind. He listens to the actions of Bella, her father, and the dog, and ascertains that while nothing was left, something was taken.

Furious, he returns once more to the car and waits.

. . . . . .

They are inside for less than half an hour. When they exit the building, Edward notices how shaken Isabella appears. She is no longer trying to push the impudent mutt away, but she does side-step when he attempts to take the arm he draped around her waist and use it to draw her into a more intimate embrace.

"I'm fine." Her tone is one step away from hostile, and her delicate chin lifts in defiant aggression despite the tremors Edward can detect under her skin, her delicate musculature quivering with stress. Edward enjoys her display of strength, and delights even more in the frustrated thoughts of the dog when she refuses his noisome attempts to succour her.

She does need comfort, but it will come from Edward, not any other.

"So what now?" Isabella turns to her father, moving further away from Jacob Black, pleasing Edward more.

_Good girl..._

"Now, I go back to the station and put out an alert for a missing person. The sooner we find Mike Newton, the sooner we can get to the bottom of all those pictures."

"What can I do?"

"You can go home, and get your damn lock fixed," Charles orders. "If you hear from Newton, you call me right away. I'm going to make sure I have a patrol car drive by your house, every hour." He turns, as though ready to walk back to his car, but thinks twice and turns back. "I don't suppose you'd consider coming home until this is all resolved?"

Isabella's brow furrows, and Edward doesn't need to read her mind to know how loathsome she finds that idea. "Serious overkill, Dad. I have _my_ own home, and I'll be fine."

Charles looks like he wants to argue, and his furious thoughts offer rapid-fire confirmations. Instead of arguing however, he snaps his jaw shut and grunts, locking eyes with Jacob. His unspoken demands seem to be as easily read by the runt as they are by Edward because he nods, the motion missed by Bella who is scanning the street with widened eyes.

_Looking for me, little one?_ Edward wonders, amused, though he doubts that. It's more likely she is seeking some sign of Newton. She moves towards Charles' squad car, but is stopped by her father's next words.

"Jake, can you take her home for me? I really need to get to the station."

Edward watches Isabella's shoulders hunch slightly inward as she levels a hostile glare on her father. He wonders what she would do if she knew her father arranged this with Jacob before hand, and that the dog is planning to stick as close to her as possible in the coming days.

It's clear Isabella cannot find reason to argue, but it is also clear that she wants to. For a moment, Edward toys with the idea of driving up and offering her a ride home. The idea amuses him further, but he isn't ready to show his face to the runt.

He is, however, ready to follow Charles Swan and lay some groundwork. For the time being, he'll need to portray a public facade: one that will bring him closer to claiming his prize and, more importantly, to keeping her.

Watching Jacob lead Isabella to his rust-bucket truck, teeth snapping over air into a tight clench that grinds his tingling incisors down over his lower teeth, the urge to throw his plans out the window and follow them instead is strong. He has to restrain himself, and the practice is foreign. It has been a very long time since he denied himself anything; it isn't an action he enjoys.

_Soon, very soon, little one. Remember who you belong to, Isabella..._

Edward waits with Charles Swan as Isabella is driven away in the direction of her home; waits even longer to allow Charles to drive away, giving the man time to arrive at the police station to avoid detection. Small town cop Charles Swan might be, but closer observation of his mind has shown Edward he's not entirely without instinct. His thoughts as he drove away were for his daughter and her safety, and Edward is reminded that it is unwise to underestimate the protective nature of a human with their offspring.

A ringing phone interrupts Edward's musings. His gaze snaps to the glove box, startled, though he isn't surprised when he opens it to find a sleek, black, very modern cell phone resting in the otherwise empty compartment. A gift from Jasper always comes with a catch; the car is obviously no exception.

He takes the phone and grinds it to dust-like particles between the fingers of his right hand, using the left to depress the automatic window button. He lets the remnants of the phone spill out onto the ground, puts the car in drive and pulls back out on the road.

He'll talk to Alice on his own terms, and not a second before he's ready. Her machinations in his life are becoming more apparent, and, given the scent of the other vampire he detected around Newton's apartment building and the missing pictures, more meddlesome by far.

Alice and her cohort are walking a very fine, very dangerous line if they think they will stand in the way of Edward's current desire. His patience is not finite; in fact, his tenuous grip upon it is so feeble he can instantly envision dozens of ways to make his psychic little sibling's mind explode with the possibilities inherent in each. He smiles, knowing that every decision he has made and discarded in the last ten seconds will keep Alice very busy trying to decipher his true plans from the red herrings he's mind fucked her with. It will only buy him a little time, but then, a little time is all Edward needs.

As for her accomplice, Edward knows she'll show her face soon. Tanya is nothing if not impulsive and impatient. The pictures she stole from Michael Newton's apartment are proof of that. His resolve hardens as does his heart. No one will come between him and Isabella. No one. Not even a former lover.

. . . . . .

In the small police station, Edward notes the cluttered desk of Charles Swan belies an organized mind. In an instant, he takes in his surroundings, analyzing details of the cubicle size office with razor sharp speed, even as he adopts human-type movement to camouflage his true nature. He hunches his shoulders and rolls his spine in a mimic of the current trend of poor posture, and he's careful to time eye blinking in with small shifting movements of his limbs.

It all requires effort Edward isn't accustomed to, but the years he played human to appease Carlisle, come back to him easily enough.

Ushered into the office by a harried and flustered older woman with a rather inventive sexual imagination, reassures him that he hasn't completely lost the ability to don sheep's clothing over his lion form. Apparently his ability to dazzle the fairer sex is not exclusive to Isabella either. He barely manages not to cringe at the visual atrocity playing out in the receptionist's mind as she imagines him fornicating with her in a position that he highly doubts her physically capable of achieving.

"Chief Swan is just speaking with Embry...I mean, Deputy Call. You can wait for him here, he shouldn't be long. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait, or tea?" _Coffee, tea or me_, she thinks giddily, her previous imaginings at least now adopting a more physically possible image of coupling. The fact the make-believe action uses the prop of her employer's desk, complete with clutter she imagines Edward will push to the floor before he crawls over her using his teeth to free her of her clothing, isn't much of an improvement.

Edward searches for the proper words a man his age would use to decline her offers of human beverages then rethinks that refusal. Holding a hot beverage would aid him in appearing human and warm the temperature of his hands.

"Coffee would be wonderful. If it's not too much trouble?"

She smiles, giddily gleeful to have an excuse to return to the room even if it means having to leave it for a moment. "Don't be silly. It's not too much trouble at all."

"As long as you're sure," he adds with a smile meant to cajole as he practices a little flattery. "It's my experience that the beautiful women behind the scenes are usually the ones doing most of the work."

She blushes, but unlike Isabella's pretty pink flush, hers is mottled and blotchy. It extends past her face, descending down her demure décolletage, but her arousal is a pleasingly soft feminine scent in an otherwise masculine smelling room. Edward smiles a little wider, rather enjoying the rush of her blood scent as her heart rate accelerates. He's careful, though, to conceal his teeth. His fangs are small and not absurd, barely noticeable even when he feeds, but his teeth are perfectly straight and disturbing when flashed. Like a yawning lion whose recently fed, those teeth show just what he is capable of; Edward's are no exception.

_So polite and handsome, and a flatterer and charmer. Oh, my..._

"Oh, well, I think I can spare a moment to make coffee." She laughs, attempting to make the sound throaty and appealing, but failing. She sounds more like a braying donkey with a bad case of nerves. "I'll be right back." She flutters eyelashes over eyes that sparkle prettily with mischief behind her bifocal lens glasses. Instead of being annoyed, Edward feels an unaccustomed urge to laugh. There's a definite sway to her matronly hips as she walks away, her thoughts girlish and lighthearted despite her post-menopausal age.

Left alone in the room, finally, Edward focuses on his surroundings and scans the office thoroughly. A picture of Isabella catches his attention and retains it. It sits atop the Chief's desk in a silver-plated frame. Isabella is lovely in a blue blouse that highlights the cream of her skin and the mahogany of her hair, the rich darkness of her eyes. The photographer captured her perfectly, right down to the slight upturn of her mouth, a Mona Lisa-esque smile replete with secrets only an esoteric few could decipher.

He looks forward to learning those secrets for himself.

Edward senses Charles Swan entering the room. He waits until Charles clears his throat, and only then does he replace the photo and turn.

"Chief Swan?" he greets, holding out his hand. "I'm Edward Masen. I hope I'm not inconveniencing you." The use of his human surname feels odd on his tongue, but he needs to avoid connections should there be any records of his former life here.

Charles Swan accepts Edward's proffered handshake, noting the cooler temperature of his skin, and taking in several other details of Edward's appearance in rapid fire measure. He misses little in detail, but quite a lot in understanding.

"Not at all, Edward. Martha tells me you're new to town?"

Edward resists the urge to smirk at the slightly condescending use of his first name. Chief Swan has his age pegged at early twenties, the shell doing its job perfectly to reflect a youth that doesn't exist, and he's striving to disabuse Edward of any idea that they are on equal footing. Elder and child, Police Chief and citizen, townie and outsider.

"Yes," Edward replies with a small smile he's careful to make appear ingratiating. "Newly arrived only a few days ago."

_Talks funny. No accent, but really articulate. Wonder where he comes from?_ "Where are you coming from, Edward?" he asks, proving Edward's theory that Chief Swan thinks little that he won't speak aloud.

"I travel quite a bit," Edward replies vaguely. "But I have a home base in New England."

Charles makes his way around to his desk and gestures to the worn plastic chair to Edward's right. "Have a seat," he offers as he lowers his own bulk into the more comfortable looking chair behind his desk. He waits for Edward to settle. "So, New England?"

Edward nods, though he knows it isn't necessary. Chief Swan appears slow and deliberating, but he isn't. His murky mind churns information quickly. "I spent some time in Maine most recently," he clarifies. He did indeed spend time there, although not recently. He even has a house there, something concrete for Charles Swan to find should he – and he would if Edward is any judge – go digging. Real estate is a safe investment, and Edward likes the idea of homes scattered in places across the world, even if he rarely has use for them. With his lifestyle, laying down roots wasn't something he thought wise, but even a vampire enjoys creature comforts from time to time.

"Good fishing up in Maine," Charles comments, still in that lazy, slow way.

"I'm not much of an angler myself, sir," Edward replies, shifting his feet to avoid overt stillness.

Charles' opinion of him, while not yet cemented, doesn't grow in points with this statement. Edward smiles internally, watching Isabella's father closer than ever. He isn't seeking to make friends.

"So, what brings you to me, Edward? Is there something I can help you with?"

Edward extends his arms along the metal arms of the chair, hands open and relaxed. "I'm renting the old Cullen mansion. I thought it would be best, given the fact the house has been empty for several decades, to let area law enforcement in on my occupancy. I wouldn't want you to waste time on a trip out there in fear that squatters had taken up residence." He smiles again, just as ingratiatingly as he did at the receptionist.

Charles Swan blinks a little. The vampire lure does not have the same sexual effect on a heterosexual male, but it still has an effect. Murky thoughts get a little murkier, and Chief Swan warms up a bit to Edward, despite himself.

"Well, that's...very considerate of you." He clears his throat, attempting to gain his equilibrium. Like most heterosexual men, Charles isn't inclined to think another man is sexually attractive, but it happens, and like most men, it makes him decidedly uncomfortable. Edward leans forward in his chair, careful to maintain a friendly expression yet playing with Charles by making direct eye contact and letting his lips curve slightly.

"The house needs a lot of work. I've agreed to oversee and manage its restoration, and I'll be hiring out contract help, so there might be...more activity than you're used to out that way. Again, I thought it best to let you know." Edward delves deeper into the Chief's mind, searching, sorting. Charles blinks, _blinks, blinks_, disconcerted, his surety wavering. Edward quickly wipes any sign of emotion from his face.

"Uh, yeah. Well...again, thanks for the heads up." _Strange guy. Too attractive for his own good. Must have money as well to be able to afford renting a house like that, even as rundown as it is. The place is huge._ Charles concludes his thoughts with a mental note to check into the titles on the property before clearing his throat and saying, "I didn't know the owners were renting it out .." _Better ask him what company..._

"It was a private negotiation. I'm acquainted with the solicitor who manages the estate," Edward pre-empts, resisting the urge to smile when Chief Swan starts a little at having his question answered before he can properly formulate how to ask it. "And, as such, I figured it would be unlikely anyone here would be aware the property wasn't totally abandoned. I thought of having my personal lawyer, Jason Jenks, send you notice, but I prefer to personally meet people. It's a dying art these days, personal contact."

Edward again resists the urge to smile when Charles carefully notes Jenks' name, as Edward knew he would. Charles Swan's impending phone call to the lawyer Edward has used for the last two decades to manage his multi-faceted affairs, won't faze the portly attorney. He's well acclimatized to the unusual. Plus, Edward pays him well, though the financial gain isn't what assures Jason Scott Jenks' loyalty. Fear does. Jenks is one of the only humans alive who suspects Edward is...different. His terror more than his avarice keeps him in line and biddable to Edward's every whim. A useful tool, fear.

Sensing Martha's over eager thoughts as she waits impatiently for the coffee to percolate, Edward gets to his feet, careful to govern the physicality of his movements. A sudden impatience is growing within him, one he no longer wishes to deny. He wants to see Isabella, touch her, taste her... He's accomplished what he wanted here – to make his presence known so he can come and go as he pleases.

"I won't take up anymore of your time, Chief Swan. I'm sure you're a busy man." He extends his hand once more. His smile when Charles is slightly reluctant to clasp it could be attributed to politeness, even if it is anything but. Chief Swan is nervous, a normal side effect for any human who spends too much time in a vampire's presence, and one that Edward finds titillating, especially now when a small dose of intimidation is exactly what he wants to deliver.

_Tread carefully, Chief Swan. You are expendable._

Despite those nerves, Charles does grasp Edward's hand, firmly, and he doesn't pull away before the masculine, overly tight clench of fingers meant to intimidate ensues. Edward allows it, though he could easily crush the bones in the man's hand to a mashed-up pulp of tiny fragments and gelatinous tendons and veins. Not that his grasp is light. He gives Isabella's father just enough time to feel confident in his too-tight grip, and the alpha-male message he's trying to send, before flexing his own fingers just the tiniest amount.

Charles Swan flinches, though he masks the sign of discomfort quickly.

_Damn, this kid is a lot stronger than he looks..._

The rest of his thoughts are disjointed, seeking connections and explanations to the way he feels about Edward without finding any.

Charles' hand curls into a fist at his side then releases, trying to rid himself of the lingering pain from Edward's handshake, and Edward turns as if to leave. Purposely he angles his body in a manner that causes his hip to brush against Charles' desk, using accurate direction of force to topple the photograph of Isabella off its surface. Moderating his speed, Edward catches the frame a split second before it hits the unforgiving floor, giving the illusion of fast reflexes without appearing unnatural.

"Oops." The exclamatory word feels silly to say, but amuses Edward as he flips the frame over to view Isabella's lovely face. "My apologies." He hands the photograph to Charles.

"No harm, no foul," Charles replies, replacing it on the desk, then rethinking that placement and moving it to an old bookshelf in the office's left corner.

"Your daughter?" Edward questions, avoiding the sudden scrutiny in Charles' gaze to hide the hunger the man might discern in his. He brushes his hands together, pretending absorption in the action of removing nonexistent dust.

"Yes, my daughter," Charles answers, unable to hide his reluctance in divulging the information to a stranger he finds disconcerting. "My pride and joy," he adds, purposely changing the tone to one filled with warning. His thoughts are more forceful.

_She's off limits, son. Don't even think about it._

Edward has already done more than "think" about it.

"She's very beautiful. I'm sure she would be _any_ man's 'pride and joy.'" He smiles once again and leaves, thoroughly enjoying the irritation, confusion, and uneasiness he purposely placed in Police Chief's Swan's mind.

Edward's formal claiming has begun.

. . . . . .

It takes less than ten minutes to arrive back at Isabella's tiny house, the speed with which he drives worth a rather large fine and more than a few demerit points off his fake driver's licence. He finds the dog still there, though he appears to have been banished to his truck. Jacob's disgruntled thoughts, still mulling over his inability to convince Isabella he should stay, reveal the events which led him to be outside instead of in.

"_Bella, Newton is obviously a sick freak and no one knows where the hell he is. Staying here by yourself is stupid."_

"_Stupid? No, what's stupid is you and Charlie thinking you can use this as an excuse to manipulate me into letting you stay here. You are _**not**_ staying here, Jake. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. Get out, go home, or to Leah, or whatever."_

"_God damn it, Bella, don't be like that..."_

"_Don't tell me what to be like, Jake. Just leave, now."_

"_Forget it. I'm not leaving you alone..."_

Something was thrown at the dog's head at that point, the image of the missile unclear. Edward smiles, amused and inordinately pleased by Isabella's temper while slightly disappointed in her aim. The projectile left a hole in her wall, not in the dog's repugnant face.

Jacob slunk away to his truck, but is now settled grudgingly inside the interior, fiercely determined to stay there, all night if necessary. Edward ponders several creative violent ideas on how to get rid of him, when Isabella opens her door, storms out onto the stoop, and arcs back her arm. This time her weapon of choice is quite clear. A large red brick Edward discerns from Jacob's mind comes from a pile stacked in the basement. Leftovers from a repair to the chimney. She holds another at her side, clutched tightly against her thigh.

Jacob curses and quickly backs out of the driveway. On the road, outside of her throwing range, he puts the truck in park and gets out, hands held up in surrender as he makes his way to the steps.

"All right," he tells her quietly. "I'll go, but damn it, promise me you'll call if you need anything or sense anything or hear...anything. Promise me or I'll stay right here on this porch no matter what the hell you throw, Bella."

She drops her arm, outrage softening to disgruntled acceptance. "Okay. I promise."

Cursing some more under his breath, Jacob Black wisely returns to his truck and drives away – wisely, not because of Isabella's ire, but because Edward is out of patience and devoid of restraint.

Edward waits until he's certain the runt is gone and not planning on doubling back. He leaves the car in the growing shadows of dusk half a block away – downwind – and makes his way with undetectable speed to Isabella's front door. The lock is repaired, again, and inside, Edward hears the sound of water rushing through antiquated pipes. Isabella is preparing to shower.

The weakened lock gives easier than ever under Edward's hand. It snaps with a sound that tells him its demise is final. He steps inside and closes the door, twisting the knob and bending the mechanism inside, creating his own lock. One no key will open.

He listens for a moment, ignoring the lingering smell of wolf and relishing the sound of Isabella stepping beneath the water. She has the temperature very hot, and the steam escapes the tiny confinement of the bathroom, humid and aromatic with her delectable aroma. She is all floral-spice and salt-copper, the lush-musk of female mingling with the scent of her soap; something that reminds him of wild strawberries ripening on green vines.

His thirst ignites despite the fact he drained several deer only this morning, filling himself with their gamey blood until he was unable to swallow another drop. The meal was unpleasant – he'd forgotten just how unpleasant in the century since he'd given up on that lifestyle – but pleasure wasn't his goal.

He can't afford to hunt his preferred meal source so close to where he's laying roots, no matter how temporary those roots might be, and besides, small towns made for slim pickings in Edward's usual sustenance. True evil prefers the smorgasbord-like selection of victims they find in larger populations, not to mention the anonymity such cities provide. Edward should know; not only does he walk the paths they walk, he subscribes to the same philosophy. Until now, small towns were places he passed through on his way to where he would find his next meal.

Edward makes his way to Isabella's small kitchen, drawn by a fragrance he cannot deny. Blood. Her blood. Traces of it linger in her kitchen sink, diluted by water and the remnants of acidic orange juice. Isabella must have hurt herself somehow. A minuscule wound judging by the paltry amount of blood scent.

He scrapes a finger along the edge of the stainless steel basin and raises it to his mouth, sucking away the weak residual he finds there. In the garbage container under the sink, he finds a spattered paper towel. He presses it beneath his nose and groans, folds it carefully, sacredly, and places it in his pocket.

He finds bills scattered over her kitchen table and thumbs through them. An open laptop in sleep mode awakens at his touch, displaying a plain blue screensaver. Edward searches her history, amused to find he's not the only one availing himself of the internet's ease to obtain knowledge. Her Google search history is full of interesting glimpses into the speculations of her mind concerning him.

"Clever girl," he muses out loud as he scans.

_Cool skin, dark red-rimmed eyes, strong, fast, beautiful_... The list she catalogued is quite extensive, and rather flattering. Isabella is attentive to details it would seem, but it was her last search – _bite on the neck_ – that finally allowed Google to interpret her wants and provide an answer she must have already concluded. She downloaded dozens of pages, all of them containing material on the same subject matter, albeit with different names. Immortal, Nosteratu, Dracula, Asanbosom..._Vampire_.

"Clever, clever girl."

He leaves her search history and hacks easily into her personal and password protected accounts. She lives frugally from what he can discern, and still her bank account contains only a miserly sum, hardly enough to cover the cost of the bills he's seen. Credit cards reveal only minimal debt and few personal purchases beyond books and the occasional incidental. His fingers fly over the keyboard, easily bypassing security firewalls and hacking into her bank's mainframe. He uses money from one of his many accounts and pays off all three cards, then transfers a lump sum of fifty thousand dollars into her account before covering his tracks. When she inquires about the money, bank managers will find only records of perfectly legal transactions. He smiles with wry amusement as he ensures her questions about her benefactor won't reveal his name, but doubts she'll have any trouble figuring out where the gift comes from. He's quickly learning that his Isabella has a fiercely independent nature, but the sooner she learns to accept that he alone will be taking care of her from now on, the better.

Edward closes out the pages he's opened, and covers his tracks as he hears Isabella turn off the water and exit her shower. He makes his way to her bedroom, pleased to find his scent still lingers, coalescing with hers. Tendrils of steam waft out from the edges of her bathroom door making his throat burn with thirst. He swallows it back, refusing to be a slave to his nature. Her blood may be the most delicious flavour he's ever encountered, but he's no longer solely interested in feeding from her. Her luscious nectar will once again meet his palate, but never again in a way that will risk the body and mind it nourishes. If that means he must slaughter every animal in a five hundred mile radius of this town, then so be it. It is a small price to pay to sustain the source.

He settles into an old rocking chair in the shadowy corner of her bedroom, listening to the sound of a soft towel wicking moisture away from even softer skin. When she wraps herself in the damp cotton and opens the door, Edward knows the very second she becomes aware she is not alone by the hummingbird sound of her wet, red heart.

"Hello, Isabella. Have you missed me?"


	8. Tentação

A/N I've used several lines and circumstances from the Twilight book in this chapter. Twilight and its characters belong to their creator, Stephanie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended or implied.

Special thanks to my beta Saritadreaming and my pre-readers, Popola and radioactive77. Could not have done this hair puller without you, guys.

Italicized lyrics after the chapter title come from the song Temptation by The Tea Party. I highly rec giving the song a listen. It's incredible and Jeff Martin is... just..._le sigh_ and incredibly talented_. _Yeah, I'm a fan. Lol.

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter 8

**Tentação**

. . . . . .

_We exist in a world  
where the fear of illusion is real..._

. . . . . .

The hot water pounds down over Bella's head and shoulders, streaming in rivulets that paint her skin with ribbons of pink. She tips her face up, accepting the burn because it matches the burn in her insides; the burn of anger and righteous fury that masks, but can't completely conceal, a riot of other emotions she cannot bring herself to confront.

The pictures on the wall of Mike Newton's apartment play through her thoughts in a sick slideshow she can't turn off.

How did he take so many without her ever knowing? How could she be so unaware of what was happening to her?

She feels violated, exposed, and she shivers despite the heat of the water. Jake's words come back to haunt her.

"_Bella. Newton is obviously a sick freak, and no one knows where the hell he is."_

She should be afraid, should be worried about her safety, but she seriously doubts Newton is a threat now. He might have been. The pictures and the tale they tell about someone who is disturbed impart a pretty clear message. He was stalking her, invading her privacy, stockpiling images of her, and for what?

_Does it matter? You know he's gone, Bella. You know he is._ The water burns, but the things she knows burn hotter, like a brand all over her skin. _His_ brand. Edward's brand.

"_You're mine, Isabella. From now until death claims you. Until I claim you."_

He marked her: physically, mentally, emotionally.

_"If any other man touches you, I will tear him limb from limb, piece by piece, without mercy."_

She runs her fingers over her wrist. The bruises there from the tight grip of Mike's oily feeling hand are still noticeable.

_"Remember this, my beautiful little lamb. Remember who you belong to."_

Bella hasn't been the same since that night, and she knows, she just knows, that Mike Newton isn't a threat to her anymore.

She doesn't know how to feel about that. She doesn't know how to feel about anything.

She goes through her shower ritual. Shampoo, rinse and repeat, condition...she drags a razor over her legs, washes skin from her neck to her feet... The patterns soothe, allowing her to fall into a mindless rhythm.

Without conscience thought, she stands under the cooling water and presses shaky fingers to her neck. Unlike the marks on her wrist, these have faded almost completely away, so much quicker than they should have. She's had hundreds of bruises over her life; none of them have healed like this. All that remains are a few patches of yellow with two slightly darker pinpricks in the center. You can't really even see them, but she knows they are there.

Her skin tingles every time she touches those marks. A ghost-like sensation of pleasure-pain that haunts her flesh, as though he left something of himself behind.

Did he?

She spent hours on the internet, searching, not allowing herself to even absorb half of what she read, just letting the information skim the surface of her mind, never accepting anything. Not really. Because if she accepts it, she knows there is no going back. She's either insane, or the world she lives in is nothing like what she thought it was.

Her body still feels the same. She doesn't believe she's changing...

_Isn't that the purpose of a bite?_

"Stop," she whispers to herself. S_top, stop, stop..._

"_You're mine, Isabella..."_

_I'm not yours, you bastard. Whoever you are, whatever you are. I am not yours_!

She reaches for the tap and yanks the dial all the way to cold. The blast of freezing water comes so abruptly it sucks the air out of her lungs. The shock of it still can't chase away her next thought.

_Aren't you? If you're not his, why can't you stop thinking about him? Worse, why can't you stop wanting him...?_

She has ached and yearned for days. Seven long days where she hasn't functioned, hasn't wanted to function, all because she felt that hole in her soul mend and knit itself closed under a stranger's hands, only to rip back open wider than ever when she woke up to a sun-drenched day more alone than ever, more incomplete than ever, more lost than ever...

_This is insane. All of this is insane. It's not real. Stuff like this doesn't exist in the real world. There are no vampires, no immortal nightmares creeping into my bedroom stitching up my psychological wounds..._

_God, I don't want this..._

The cold water makes her bones ache, her skin feel like it's being lashed into numbness. She tips her head and lets it drum over the back of her head, rush down her goose bump covered back.

_Don't you, Bella? Don't you want exactly this?_

Her subconscious thoughts bubble to the surface and mock her, because the truth is she's been lost and alone for so long, so tired of the yawning gulf of nothingness inside of her, that she isn't sure this isn't exactly what she wants.

Not him, but what he _is_. An end to her sadness and desolation, a reprieve from the sentence of more of the same, the peace she's never been able to find, all in one perfect, terrifying package.

_He is death, and I'm a willing sacrifice._

Shivering, Bella reaches again for the tap and shuts it off. Her tired mind mocks her with her overly dramatic thoughts. She isn't suicidal, just...exhausted.

She steps out of the shower enclosure, her muscles trembling a little. She hasn't slept well since that night. Not because she doesn't sleep. The opposite is true. She sleeps deeper and longer than normal, barely able to keep her eyes open past the time when daylight begins to fade, falling into bed and not even remembering closing her eyes. No, it's not lack of sleep that makes her tired, it's the dreams she cannot shake that start the minute she succumbs to rest and persist until the late morning, when she drags herself up and awake.

Powerful, erotic dreams that lack clear images, but nevertheless leave her gasping and aching, that empty place inside of her crying out for...something more. Something she's touched and felt. Someone.

She drags her hand over the mirror, wiping away condensation, and revealing her image that reflects back at her all that she feels in the shadows under her eyes and the haunted trembling of her lips. Her hair drips icy water over her shoulders and breasts, down her belly and over her thighs, all too reminiscent of cool lips kissing her flesh, taking her down into sensations she never knew existed.

_Why won't you get out of my head?_

Dragging a hairbrush through her hair, Bella is grateful she was able to get Jake to leave. She's been avoiding everyone, even Jess these last few days, because she knows she can only hide how she's feeling for a short amount of time. The mirror mocks her with the truth of that. Less than two hours outside of the house, and she's drained and shaking, not from what was revealed about Mike, although none of that is pleasant, but because of the effort it required to bury her turmoil. Turmoil that is growing, not easing, the more time passes.

_He isn't coming back. Whatever he is, whatever he did, he's gone. Long gone._

She should feel soothed by that thought; instead she feels...bereft.

_What is wrong with me? I'm losing it. I'm not well. This isn't normal..._

She tries to ignore the way her hand trembles as she brushes her teeth and smoothes lotion over her damp skin. She knows she needs help because none of this is rational, but she doesn't know who to trust or who to turn to. All she can do is pray this, whatever _this_ is, passes.

_Please, God, let it pass..._

. . . . . .

In the parking lot of 'Black Automotive,' Jake sits in his truck letting it idle, his head back against the battered head rest. He can feel the vibrations of the engine in his back and legs, and it's a good feeling; a solid, reassuringly normal feeling. Proof that some things can be controlled and repaired. Machinery is so easy. It's why he's always loved the art of mechanics. There is no motor that he cannot bring to life with the right parts – hell even with the wrong ones; no knocking, misfiring, broken engine he cannot coax from a bleating, contentious beast into a purring, docile kitten.

Too bad real life and relationships are not so easy.

He drags a hand over his face, feeling the sticky residuals of nerve induced sweat cling to his palm. Standing in Newton's apartment and witnessing – not once but twice – the sick freak's twisted obsession with Bella, made him want to puke. Not just for the stomach curdling proof that a psycho has been right under his nose threatening someone he loves, but also because it forced him to realize, yet again, how far removed he is becoming in Bella's life.

_Maybe if she didn't shut me out, I could have seen this. _

The pictures on that wall gave a pretty good representation of the timeline Newton was operating under. He'd definitely amped up his surveillance and photography opportunities during the months after Bella threw Jake out of the house.

Snapping open the glove box, he roots through the contents to find a pack of Marlboro's. He started smoking at the age of sixteen, quit when he started dating Bella, and now, full circle, he is back at it. He flips the pack open and fingers the cigarettes inside, thinking about bad habits and hating the proof these stupid cancer sticks are pointing out. He's self destructing. Cigarettes are only the tip of the iceberg. He's been drinking more lately, and doing that is stupid given his family history. Billy, his father, was a raging drunk for years. Sarah, his mother, fed up with all of it, packed Jake and his sisters up one rainy Monday morning while Billy snored on the couch sleeping off his last bender, and drove them out of the Res. She hit the highway out of Forks and never looked back.

Jake was five at the time. His memories of those early years are hazy flashes seen through a child's eyes, but he can still remember the sound of doors slamming, Sarah crying, Billy slurring - an endless repetition of moments repeated too many times. For ten years after they left, his mom raised him and his older sisters by herself and did a damn fine job of it. When she got sick and passed away just after Jake's fifteenth birthday – ovarian cancer – he was forced back to the Res and a world he really didn't want any part of. Quileute may be his blood, his heritage and lineage, but he grew up outside of all of it in a thoroughly modern, normal world. By the time he returned, he was a big kid with a chip on his shoulder, and a whole lot of resentment that didn't give one shit that Billy Black had been sober for years and desperately looking for his kids. He gave even less than one shit about all the history of 'his people,' and all their screwed up legends and fantasy stories.

Billy tried for years, and failed miserably, to teach and include his only son in the beliefs of the tribe. Jake eventually found a way to forgive Billy for the past. He didn't have much of a choice given the circumstances, and the last thing he'd promised his mother was that he would make the best of his life. That meant sucking it up and dealing with the status quo, but that sucking it up didn't pertain, in Jake's mind anyway, to the sucking up of the shit Billy shoveled out.

_Descended from wolves. Protectors of their people. Cold ones. First wives and treaties..._

All that werewolf, vampire, bogus stuff embarrassed the hell out of Jake, and he made it very clear the first week after his eighteenth birthday, when Billy tried to recruit him to some asinine group of tribal Elders, that he wasn't ever going to be a part of the world Billy lived in beyond the basics of an address.

A fist through the wall and a broken kitchen table after that particular argument, emphasized his point clearly enough that Billy finally backed off. A car accident shortly after Sarah had vacated his life left Jake's father paralyzed from the waist down, but even if it hadn't, Billy lacked the physical size and strength, not to mention the knowhow, to control Jake.

Thinking back on that day leaves a bad taste in his mouth, worse than any cancer stick – not because he regrets doing what needed to be done to get Billy off his back, he doesn't. What he does regret though, is the hot-head temper that has been a part of him since the day his voice first started cracking and hair started showing up on his body. Like a living electrified wire of energy inside of him, it could be tripped with the slightest provocation. He's been battling it ever since puberty, and the truth is he's still not winning.

Like the cigarettes in his hand, anger and his poor self-control are just another self-destructive bad habit. He can't blame those traits entirely for the ending of his relationship with Bella – hell, she has a temper, too, and she's never had trouble holding her own against him. Case in point, him almost getting brained twice tonight. What it did do though, was ensure she wouldn't give him a second chance. Ever.

Jake lights his cigarette and rolls down the window. It's starting to get dark, and a light drizzle is beginning to fall. Inhaling the smoke, he lets his mind wander back to the night it all fell apart. Familiar twinges of guilt make his guts twist uncomfortably with the memories.

Bella was bitchy all that day. Jake would have chalked it up to PMS, but Bella really didn't have that issue, and it was the wrong time of the month anyway. He was tired and not exactly chipper himself. One problem after another had popped up at the shop that day. Piddly-ass stuff mostly, but still the kind that just piled up one on top of another until he was nursing the mother of all headaches. He'd just wanted some peace and quiet, a little time on the couch with a game to unwind, maybe a beer or two.

He was late. He didn't call to let her know. He didn't remember to turn his cell phone on, again. She'd wanted him to pick up groceries for the dinner she was making, the dinner he was late for – typical relationship stuff that resulted in a snarky spat. One that should have ended with him eating crow, apologizing, and then taking her to bed for some loving make-up sex.

And it would have, except all week Bella had been doing her '_holding her guts in with her arms'_ routine, acting distant and being too quiet, the way she always got when whatever the hell made her do the self-hugging shit got bad.

It _still_ would have, except all that week Jake had watched her do it and felt more and more helpless to know what to do for her. More and more tired of trying to figure out _how_ to help her. He just wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to eat dinner and crash on the couch, have a little down time and then take his girl to bed, spend some time rolling around in their sheets and feeling her skin all over his.

_Except, _when she got like that, she never wanted sex, and the dry spell over that last two-weeks had been getting on his nerves.

_Except,_ Bella wasn't in any mood for his excuses; she was a wounded little thing just looking to lash out, probably sick of his shit, too, because yeah, at that time he hadn't exactly been acting like a good boyfriend.

She yelled, he yelled. Stuff was said, and he doesn't really remember all of it. He might have verbally thrown things in her face he shouldn't have, things about Leah being there for him more than she was, which wasn't a lie, but still, he shouldn't have said it.

Leah, at that time, was a friend, nothing more. He hadn't crossed any lines, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't occur to him, even then, that he could cross lines, that Leah was more than willing to let him cross lines.

Just like tonight, Bella lost her cool and pitched stuff at him, an ashtray, the TV remote, only that night Jake's temper snapped, and snapped good. He punched three holes in the wall by the door just before he stormed out of it, yanking the screen right off its hinges, leaving it hanging by splintered wood pieces as he stalked to his truck and screeched out of the driveway down the road.

He went to the diner and hit the booze, hard, knowing it was stupid, but too pissed off to care. Later, too drunk to drive home, he tried to call Seth Clearwater to come and get him, only Seth wasn't home. Leah was.

She drove out and picked him up, and somehow they ended up parked on a dark side street where Leah made her way onto his lap, her tongue down his throat. It never went any farther than that. Not that night. Passing headlights sobered him up, and he'd pushed her away only to spend twenty minutes heaving his guts out in a ditch, effectively, and thankfully, ruining anything that might have been left of the mood.

Leah, pissed off and slighted, drove him home, and maybe it still would have been okay, _except_ Bella was waiting for him. She watched him stagger out of Leah's car, then walked back in the house and locked the door, wedging a chair under the knob so he couldn't get in without doing more damage than he already had.

Leah left, and a half hour later, two busted out windows, and the forever memory of Bella standing on their porch crying, got stamped into his brain as Charlie slapped him in handcuffs and shoved him in his police cruiser. Jake spent that night in the Forks equivalent of the drunk tank. He woke up the next morning with the worst hangover and the jarring sound of Charlie dropping a duffle bag packed with his clothes at his feet.

"Bella doesn't want you home right now, and frankly, I don't blame her. Go stay with, Billy. Give her some time to cool off."

Ashamed, Jake staggered to his feet, unable to meet Charlie's eyes. As he went to leave the cell, Charlie spoke very quietly.

"I like you, Jake. You're like the son I never had, but Bella is my baby girl. You ever pull another stunt like this, you ever make her cry again, I will beat your ass to a pulp and charge you with criminal misconduct. Get your act together, son. You hear me?"

Jake lets the memory fade out. The sting of regret and humiliation is still fresh, despite the months that have passed. The worst part of it wasn't the embarrassment, it's the fact that he let Charlie down and hurt Bella.

He exhales smoke out the window and feels those emotions all over again, fresh and deserved because once again, he's failing to protect Bella. Some sicko perv right under his nose had a jones for her, and he never fucking knew it. His skin crawls with the thought of what Mike could do to her, given a little more time to incubate his delusions. And who knows where the cocksucker is now? Or what he's planning?

Jake's skin begins to crawl in earnest now.

His cell phone chirps, and he drops the half finished smoke out the window, snatching it out of his pocket, his heart kicking in his chest.

Bella?

He stares at the unfamiliar number, confused, before his outdated cell finally kicks in with the caller display feature.

Shit. Leah.

He lets it go to voice mail and shoves the door of his truck open. Long legged strides eat up the distance to his shop and the computer inside with the fast internet connection. Disregarding the new message sign flashing on the screen, he dials Embry's cell and unlocks the door to the garage, heading up the stairs to his office three at a time.

"Hey, Jake." Embry doesn't sound surprised to hear from him. He does sound resigned.

"Embry, you know what I want."

"Jake, don't even go there. I know you're upset…"

"I want to know everything you know about Mike Newton."

"You know I can't do that. This is an open case, and it's privileged information. I can't discuss any of it with a civilian, not even you."

"Don't give me your shit, Embry. Did you see those fucking pictures? This is _Bella_ we're talking about. Don't make me remind you that you owe me."

"Damn it, Jake…"

"I'm at my office. Get here, now."

Jake hangs up, and boots up his computer, already dialing out again.

"Ja...aay...kie, boy. How's it going, man? Long time no talk." Quil laughs, sounding a little stoned, which he probably is. Jake doesn't care.

"Quil, I need you."

There's a pause and the sound of car keys being picked up off a table. Jake closes his eyes, grateful for the friend he knows will always have his back.

"Where are you?" No other questions, and in the background the rumble of a lovingly rebuilt 1969 Mustang vibrates to life.

"The shop; my office. Doors unlocked. Embry's on his way."

Another short pause as Quil digests and wonders, but doesn't ask. A door closes and the rumble increases.

"I'm on my way; be there in ten."

Jake makes one more call to Seth, grateful when Leah doesn't pick up, then settles into his chair to stare at his computer screen. Seth is the computer genius, but he's taught Jake enough that he can get a head start. He pulls up a series of programs and starts his search.

With a little perseverance, he's sure he'll find Mike Newton before the moon hits its highest point in the sky. The little sick fucker can't stay off the kind of grid Jake is working with. No one can.

. . . . . .

In comparison to the brighter lighting in the bathroom, Bella's bedroom is dark. Even before her eyes can adjust to the growing gloom cast by evening shadows, she freezes in her tracks because she knows she isn't alone.

The skin on the nape of her neck prickles, and her heart skitters in her chest alarmingly. Adversely, she feels able to take the first full breath of the day around the tightness in her chest.

_Edward._

She knows it's him, recognizes it on a level far that goes deeper than observation. Her mouth gets dry, and her palms get damp. The aching emptiness in her center dissipates.

In the corner, she catches a glimpse of movement and turns toward it.

"Hello, Isabella. Have you missed me?"

She can make him out now; a dark silhouette sitting in an even darker corner, in her rocking chair. Her hand fumbles for the light switch, heart in her throat. Cool fingers touch hers, and she jumps back, a soundless cry coming out of her tight throat as a gasp. The light floods the room from the small lamp, and he's there.

Oh, God, he's here, standing right in front of her…

He looks exactly as she remembers him. Dark, auburn tinted hair that's more copper than red, blazing black eyes, pale complexion. His jaw is cut from stone, his nose a little severe yet perfectly proportioned under those damned eyes. Lips, softly full and sensuous, balance out features that would otherwise be too hard, too angular, too chiseled out of marble like some demigod carved in ancient Greece.

_He's so beautiful…_

She never heard him move.

Dozens of panicked questions flit through her mind like scared birds.

_Who are you? What are you? What do you want? Why are you here? Why me?_

Her mind gets stuck on the last one, the final frightened little bird that can't stop bouncing off the transparent glass even though it offers no exit.

_Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me? _

She never asks why, so she focuses on getting sweet unrestricted air into her lungs and calming her racing heart.

Edward of the dark eyes and even darker intents, Edward of her dreams that should have been nightmares but were something so much more, cocks his head to the side like a lion perplexed by the actions of its meal. He studies her.

"You haven't answered my question. Did you miss me, Isabella?" His voice is a soft baritone tinged with an indescribable velvety feel that wraps its way around her like a physical touch.

Swallowing past a dry throat, she licks her lips in a useless attempt to wet them, her mouth like a desert. He watches the movement all too intently. Somehow Bella manages to shake her head in negation to his question, though it damns her for a liar. The almost cruel turn to his lips paints his smirk as proof that he knows it.

"No?" he mocks, arching a heavy eyebrow. He turns more towards her, and she takes a step back in reaction. The move feels wrong, but there is enough fear in her to keep her from doing what she truly wants. _Move closer_. It brings her up against the wall, trapped, and he smiles again, dark, taunting.

"I'm wounded, Isabella." He's directly in front of her now, so close she can taste the sweetness of his breath on the air as he leans in closer, angling his head so that his words are a touch free caress on her ear. "After what we shared the other night, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, and now I come to find you do not feel the same?" He exhales with a fake wounded sigh, and Bella feels one lone finger touch her neck, beginning at her runaway pulse and then moving down slowly to the hollow of her throat. "My male pride is affronted. Will you not even falsify a little to ease the sting to my ego?"

She feels so many different things at once. Fear and tension at the forefront, but as his finger strokes the sensitive skin at the base of her neck, she feels a longing start up in her body that is almost violent. His touch is cool, yet it makes her skin feel hot, over-sensitive and thin, as if the nerves are closer to the surface.

He angles his head, and comes away from her ear to look down at her. His eyes are different she realizes, struck by the thought and clinging to it like an anchor in the sea of her insanity. Her body feels like it's been attached to his by strings. She can feel the pull, and she wants, aches, to sink into his center of gravity, fall into it and give up her own.

_Fall. He'll catch you_, some secret voice inside of her reassures, even as a saner version screams at her to run.

"Your eyes are different," she whispers, speaking out loud to give matter and substance to her anchor. "They were black with red rings around them before. Now the rings are more…golden."

His expression switches from amused to speculative. His finger pauses its relentless, mind assaulting, feel good attack on her skin.

"Are they?"

"Yes." A little more life comes back into her limbs, and Bella shifts her feet, suddenly aware of how little she is wearing. The death grip she has on the flimsy towel makes her fingers numb. She doesn't dare flex them.

Edward smiles, those strange eyes flashing with amusement, and her heart pounds harder.

_He's more than just beautiful…_

"Perceptive," he muses, as though noticing something for himself and merely speaking the thought out loud.

The chain on her vocal chords frees up, and she asks, "How did you get in here?"

"The door," he answers, mocking again.

"It was locked. I locked it…"

"I broke it, again. I'm afraid it's not repairable this time, but don't worry. I'll have a new one installed. One that only you and I will have the key to."

Bella blinks.

Edward's finger resumes its stroking, moving lower, sweeping back and forth along the towels edge and the slight swell of her breasts. His head lowers.

"Enough of trivial things like eye colour and locks that cannot ever keep me out. Perhaps a kiss will help restore your memory of our time together. You see," he breathes the words over her mouth and her head fogs, "I know you enjoyed our time together, Isabella. I can still hear your sweet little cries for more ringing in my head."

His lips, cool and solid, yet softer, silkier, than anything she has ever felt before, touch hers. All the air in her lungs leaves her in a moaning rush, and her knees buckle. Only the thinnest thread of sanity remains, but it is enough to empower her to twist her head to the side.

"No, please, no." There is no volume or conviction to her plea. He chuckles darkly.

"Your mouth says no, Isabella, but your body is speaking to me in an entirely different language."

It is; she knows it. She doesn't want his kiss, and yet she does. Her body is burning for a whole hell of a lot more than just a kiss, too. The rapidly fast beating of her heart is being kept company by a matching drum throbbing between her legs…

"Please," she manages again, only she's not entirely certain what she wants. Despite that, a mere second later she is aware that he is no longer in front of her. Blinking past a burning rush of tears she refuses to let fall, she sees he's moved back to the rocking chair.

He's frowning, smoothing his hand over the perfect pleat in his dark slacks, watching her. He exhales through his nose, an impatient noise. Despite the sound, his frown fades, and once again his expression becomes devoid of emotion. A quiet, watchful, clean slate.

"Forgive me, Isabella. I'm afraid I've forgotten all the rules of courtship and gotten several steps ahead of myself." He smiles again, but Bella can't tell if he's sincere in that twisted mentality of his or mocking her again.

"Is that what this is?" she asks, hating the way her voice warbles and cracks from her strained throat. She needs a drink of water, but is too afraid her legs won't hold her up without the wall at her back. "A courtship?" The inanity of a question like that doesn't escape her, but she can't find the wherewithal to form better ones.

Edward cocks his head again. The light catches the strange colour in his eyes, making them glint. "In a sense, yes, I suppose it is."

Bella manages to shake her head. "I want you to…to leave," she stammers.

"Do you?" The smirk is back, the tilt to his head arrogant.

"Yes!" She finds some volume to her insistence and with it some of the paralyzing fear fades giving new substance to her jelly-like knees. She manages a step away from the wall. "Leave. I didn't ask you to come here. If you don't leave, I'm going to call the police." It's all bluster, and she knows he knows it.

"By all means, Isabella. Call your father."

Her feet freeze to the floor at the mention of Charlie.

"Interesting man Chief Swan. Rather a mix of several things. Small town cop with little skill set, and yet his instincts, when he listens to them, are sound. And he is so lovingly proud and protective of his only child."

"How do you know…?"

"Isabella, please. Do you think I'd neglect such an important facet of a courtship as meeting your father? I admit I've stepped out of bounds in the normal time line of events. I should have met him first and garnered his permission, but then, I'm old-school. It's not how things are done nowadays, is it?" He doesn't wait for an answer, simply smiling as her head reels. "Modern courtships are so…lax in rules. A benefit to me, I suppose, given the liberties I've already taken with you."

She ignores the sexuality that oozes out of him, and the way his eyes skim her entire body when he wraps his sensuous lips around the word 'liberties.' She even ignores the way her body responds to it.

"What did you do to him?" For the first time since she walked into the room, her fear has real substance. It bolsters her courage, giving her a boost of adrenaline that has her moving closer to him. "If you hurt him…"

"Relax, Isabella. Your father is fine. What reason would I have to harm him? I merely introduced myself. It is always wise to let authorities in small communities know when someone new comes to town, after all."

What fear hasn't been able to accomplish, relief does. Bella feels her knees give out, but before she can collapse, solid arms are supporting her weight effortlessly.

Oh, God. He smells so good…She wants to push her face against his chest and sag into him, let him carry this weight, do what he wants with her…

_What is wrong with me?_ She thinks, desperately scrambling to find sense, to find reason, to find some damn shred of common sense that tells her what she should be doing.

She tries to pull away, but her hands are pushing against a cool cement wall that doesn't give an inch.

"Let me go."

He lifts her instead and carries her to the bed, the movement too quick and too alarming, making her cry out. He settles her there, and suddenly he's over her, too close, too in her space.

_Not close enough…_

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Isabella. You've gotten under my skin." He isn't touching her, just hovering over her, his hands braced on either side, and he looks like he's trying to figure out a puzzle. It's unnatural how he's holding himself so perfectly still. She doesn't even think he's breathing.

"What are you?" she gasps, her heart hammering so hard in her chest she wonders if it will burst.

He smiles and lowers his head until his nose skims her cheek, her jaw, slipping lower into the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her skin ignites everywhere, heat and need pulsing harder between her legs. She feels a small rush of moisture there, warm and soft. His nostrils flare and she wonders if he can smell her. She's sure he can when his eyes seem to get darker.

"You know what I am, Isabella."

With a violent jerk she shakes her head, her hair tangling against the pillow behind it.

"Yes, you do," he reputes her denial. "Say it," he whispers, and she feels something cool and…God…his tongue on her skin, licking right where her pulse is jumping and she wants…she doesn't know what she wants…she just…wants, please…

"Please."

He raises his head and pins her with that stare. "Say it out loud, Isabella" he urges. "Tell me what I am."

There is nothing left inside of her to deny what he's asking. He could ask anything, and she'd give it to him now. The thought is terrifying, liberating, sickening, thrilling.

"Vampire."

He looks at her with such intensity, those eyes missing nothing. "And are you afraid?"

Something inside of her gives, loosens, like a weight sliding off her. Realization is quick and abrupt, bringing sweet relief. She is terrified, but not of him. She is terrified of what all this means, of what he wants, but she isn't afraid of _him_.

"No. You won't hurt me." She has no idea why she is so certain of this, but the second she says the words she knows they're true.

Edward's eyes get blacker, darkness swelling and swallowing the gold. "I've already hurt you," he says, a snarl to his tone. His eyes fall on her throat, on the place he just licked that still throbs and tingles like she's been stroked by electric sparks, the place just beneath her pulse that still bears marks – _his marks_. "Your blood is beyond compare, Isabella. I don't plan to deny myself the pleasures of you. All of them, do you understand?"

"You won't hurt me," she repeats.

His lip curls and he's gone. Bella blinks, sits up slowly, disoriented, oddly disappointed and relieved all at the same time. He's standing by the window, looking out, one hand clenched around the curtain he's holding back, the other in his hair, raking the strands, fisting them. He looks angry yet contemplative when he turns his head to look at her.

"Such faith," he says, tone dripping condescension. "And yet your heart is racing, and this entire room is perfumed with your fear."

"You won't hurt me."

His expression softens, and he moves at normal speed to the side of the bed. He touches her face with one hand, stroking the back of his knuckles down her skin.

"I feel…very protective of you." He drops his touch with a harsh exhale of breath, his hand falling to his side and curling in and out of a fist.

He regards her for a long minute while she wrestles with the dual desires inside of her.

_Run, scream, fight, give in, let go, trust…_

"How much do you trust this instinct that believes I won't harm you?"

Bella swallows, licks her lips.

She's chasing the elusive, and the hole in her chest is stuffed so full there isn't room for anything else. She can't lose this feeling, she…just can't.

"I trust it," she answers simply, and with that statement her heart beat slows and steadies. A strange sense of calm washes over her.

Edward holds out his hand, palm up, steady as a rock. "Come with me," he urges in that velvet-laced voice that makes her feel hypnotized. A beautiful smile teases up the corners of his mouth, no less dark and dangerous for the beauty of it.

She doesn't think, simply reaches out and places her hand in his, letting him lift her up.

"I'm not dressed."

Edward plucks a dark blue silk robe off the back of her bedroom door, a birthday gift from Renee she's rarely ever worn, and holds it out. Slipping her arms in, she shivers a little at the touch of the material. Her skin is so hyper sensitive, so aware. Edward pulls the towel down and away. When his eyes skim her body, she feels it like a touch.

"Ah, Isabella, so beautiful," he compliments, before wrapping the robe around her and belting it.

_Her body aches…_

She is poised on the precipice of self destruction and self discovery. She knows it but leaps blindly ahead anyway.

"Where are we going?"

"Someplace private, where we can talk," he tells her.

She follows him as he leads her out of the house, past the broken lock, and out into a sultry late summer night. He sweeps her off her feet, and a heartbeat later she's seated in a car with sumptuous, leather interior seats. Edward is at the wheel, the car already in motion before she can assimilate the actions that have brought her here, the madness.

_In for a penny, in for a pound…_

. . . . . .

* * *

A/N Just a reminder. As explained in chapter 5, Jake is not a full-fledged werewolf in this story. He carries the werewolf gene, but he cannot phase/change into a wolf. The Cullens never came to Forks, remember, so therefore the window of opportunity for the werewolf transformation to begin has closed. (In this story the change must happen/begin during puberty or the genes remain dormant.) He does have some traits common to the werewolf that make him a threat. Time will tell just how much.

Edward is making some mistakes that _might_ catch up to him. Some are obvious, others not so much. Can you spot them? ;-)

Thanks for reading!

Aleea


	9. Kísértés

**A/N **Huge thanks to Team Prey for helping me iron out all the kinks and providing much needed feedback and support on a very difficult chapter. Popola, Radioactive77, RubyLou - the best pre-readers a girl could ask for - and my awesome teacher/beta, SaritaDreaming. This chapter would be a hot mess without you guys. Mwah!

Special thanks also to DarkNnerdy for writing an amazing review/rec/pimp for Prey that just knocked my socks off.

****Warning** - The following chapter contains graphic content intended for adult readers, including sexuality and mild blood play. If content of this type bothers you...well...what are you doing reading a Darkward fic? Lol. ;-)

. . . . . .

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

_. . . . . ._

**Chapter 9**

**Kísértés**

. . . . . .

_And we cling to the past  
to deny and confuse the ideal..._

. . . . . .

Edward cannot remember the last time he felt as out of control as he does now. Control is something he mastered decades ago, something he thrives on, gets off on, relishes and works at. His victims haven't always made the most appetizing of meals. Drugs, alcohol, disease – they all taint the blood, lace it with flavours that dilute his pleasure in feeding as all too often the wicked of this world indulge in substances and chemicals that sour their essence. Choosing them over the untainted flocks that scurry about this world in blissful ignorance is not an easy feat. It has required ceaseless diligence and mastery over his baser urges.

Isabella is changing all of that, slowly, inexorably. The part of him that recognizes this, that craves control, seeks to justify it.

_I have not killed her. I will not kill her..._

The other part of him, the part that aches for more from this desolate existence he calls life, justifies it even further.

_Her blood calls to me and me alone, therefore she is mine..._

The vehicle's engine purrs as he accelerates into a turn. The streets are quiet, nearly deserted. Small town life, Edward thinks with a pleased smile. Shops, restaurants, stores, all closed for the evening while Forks inhabitants sequester themselves in their homes, content with family and televisions, resting, gearing themselves up for the start of a new week, the next chapter in their monotonous, short lives.

He makes another turn into a back alley, parking beside an overfull dumpster that reeks with an excess of human wastefulness. A small village in Africa could be fed for a week with the amount of food tossed so thoughtlessly out to rot.

Opening the passenger door, Edward holds out his hand to Isabella, relishing the feel of her small fingers in his when she takes it without hesitation. He wonders, not for the first time, if she is one of the multitudes of the infirm in mind, for surely she cannot be entirely sane to so readily touch him. The sharp intelligence in her eyes when she meets his gaze upon stepping out tells him otherwise, not that he solely trusts his judgement with her. Being unable to read her mind leaves him at a distinct disadvantage.

She glances at the door he leads her to, recognition dawning.

"It's closed," she tells him, as if he doesn't already know. "They're never open on Sundays. Archaic, I know, but Forks still believes in the philosophy that Sunday should be a day of rest." Her voice trembles a little, but otherwise, she appears composed.

Edward merely opens the door, demonstrating that nothing is closed for him, and ushers her inside with a hand to the small of her back and light pressure easing her forward. Touching her is an exercise in restraint, both in his strength and the fact that he wants more – more of her skin beneath his fingertips, more of her taste in his mouth. Just more, always more...

She blinks, narrowing her gaze at the door. "Did you just break the lock? This is illegal, you know?"

He laughs at her expense, and the things her incongruous mind chooses to be concerned over. Apparently, breaking and entering gives her moral qualms that being in the presence of a vampire does not. "I didn't break the lock. I have other ways of opening doors, Isabella." He holds the small locks pick out for her to see, and her gaze narrows further, focusing on him. What he wouldn't give to see into her mind.

"Then why break mine?" she asks, almost indignantly.

Edward steps closer to her, crowding her personal space, inhaling the perfume of her blood as it races a little faster in her delicate veins. Oh, how she pleases him, amuses him. Her kittenish temper flares, though she tries to take a step back and comes up short against the wall. He lets the door close, taking away the small amount of light from the alley, and relishes the rich flare of anxiety he smells on her skin and breath as he leans in closer.

"So that you would know I was there," he whispers in answer, ducking his head to brush his lips feather light over her accelerated pulse point. He steps back, pocketing the lock picking tool before snapping on the lighting. Without waiting for her response, he leads her inside, turning on a few more lights for her benefit, yet leaving most of the tavern shrouded in shadow to avoid detection from any outside passersby.

He makes his way to the bar, leaving her standing alone. His movements are too quick for her to track, and he watches her spin to look for him, her eyes not yet adjusted to the gloom. The clinking of glasses gives away his location, and she turns toward it, startled. He can see and hear her fast breathing, the delicious quick rise and fall of her breasts through the cheap, fake silk of her night wrap. He thinks of the fine fabrics he'd like to drape her flesh in and makes note of them as he uncorks a bottle of red wine, sniffing at the contents disparagingly. _So hard to get good spirits at a place like this,_ he laments, re-corking and discarding before selecting an aged, single-malt whiskey from the top shelf. A slight tinge of dust on the bottle shows how seldom any customer of this establishment would ever have any kind of discerning palate.

He places two glasses on the bar and splashes a generous amount of the amber liquid inside.

"Ice?" he queries as she finally finds her feet and makes use of them.

She doesn't answer, so he adds two cubes and pushes the glass in front of her. He lifts his own, waving it beneath his nose, swirling the contents, and inhaling the rich notes.

Ignoring the glass in front of her, Isabella peers at him through those large doe eyes. "What are we doing here?"

Edward sets his glass down next to hers. He cannot drink alcohol, or any fluid other than blood, but he loves the smell of a good aged whiskey, and the feel of a tumbler in his hand reminds him of days long past.

"Why, Isabella," he intones with feigned surprise, "this is where we met. Don't tell me you've forgotten?"

She scowls, a little more of that kittenish temper flaring in her expression. He moves to the table he sat at the night he encountered her, taking his glass with him, and settling back against that same cracked, aged vinyl bench.

"I saw you first right here," he tells her, smiling when she spins to face him, her human senses slow to catch up. "You walked by, just another human in the crowd, no one special. I was looking for escape. A few hours to sit and listen to music I hoped would drown out all the other...noise." He remembers his bitterness, his loathing of his existence, and marvels at how a single moment changed so much.

"What do you want from me?" She sounds suddenly desperate and small.

He returns to her, tangling his hand in her hair and tugging her head back so that her face is tipped up to his, her eyes wide and startled again, her breath catching. His gaze rakes over her features, as though he can find the answer to her pull in the slight upturn of her nose, the gentle slash of her cheekbones, the open part of her lips. He drags his thumb over her cheek. She is so impossibly fragile. One slight push and he could cave in her skull; end her with just the minutest amount of effort. He thinks of all the ways human life can be extinguished and feels rage ignite inside of him at the thought that she could be taken away. His hand gentles even more.

"Such a loaded question, little pet," he murmurs finally in answer. "Perhaps you would receive a better answer by asking – what _don't_ I want from you?" He leans closer and presses his mouth to the corner of hers. Her hands rise to fist in the fabric of his shirt. He thinks she means to push him away, but a whimper that sounds like acquiescence escapes her instead. She trembles.

"I want everything, Isabella. All of you," he tells her against her mouth, moving his lips to the other corner of hers, dragging her humid exhalations into his mouth, throat, and lungs until her breath is his and his is hers.

"No," she whimpers, making him chuckle against the skin of her jaw, the small slope beneath.

"Yes."

. . . . . .

Bella feels herself being pressed back against the bar and clutches harder at his shirt. She wants to scream, to run, to do the sane, normal thing, the right thing, but her body craves closer contact.

_I'm not a pet_, she thinks to tell him, but all that comes out of her mouth is a whining, breathless sound that reminds her of sex.

Or more accurately, sex with him, because she has nothing else to compare it to. It's not normal how he makes her feel. Heat flares over her, part blushing embarrassment at the memories she can't suppress, part simple reaction and need.

She manages to say no, but he laughs that low deep timbre of sound that's more vibration than noise and tells her yes.

Edward steps back away from her. She's shocked at how cold she feels, how empty with the loss of contact. It's all she can do not to reach for him. She reaches for her glass instead, taking a deep drink and nearly choking on the burn as he moves behind her. Spinning around, constantly caught off guard by the way he moves, Bella can hardly catch her breath. He moves like a predator, and wariness bids her to keep track of him as much as she can. She trusts her instinct that he won't hurt her, though she doesn't know why, but that doesn't mean she thinks she's safe with him. On the contrary, she very much knows she is not.

"I watched you," he tells her, leaving her floundering for a moment until she realizes he's speaking again of the night it all began. "You walked by me without a glance, completely oblivious, while I fought not to slaughter everyone in this place just to get to you."

The question why teases her tongue, but the ingrained habit of avoiding it leaves it unspoken. Instead she watches him pace to the small stage to run his fingers over an empty microphone stand.

"You stood right here in front of this stage, swaying to the beat of the music."

Bella remembers the song and how the driving pulse of it vibrated up through the scuffed wooden floors. Even though she's never been big on dancing, she wasn't able to resist the beating rhythm of that song.

The lyrics pulse through her mind. _Temptation, it never lets me down..._

"Such a fitting song," he intones dryly and then, nearly in aside, taking her off guard – "The singer wanted you; did you know that?"

She blushes a little and shrugs, wondering how Edward would know that. She felt the singer's attention on her, saw the way he looked at her, the deep base of his voice curling itself around her spine as she danced. She remembers considering, just for a moment, letting herself go with the obvious attraction.

"He nearly lost his life for that wanting."

Bella shivers, thinking of Mike. What did Edward do with him? He looks capable of anything she thinks, watching him now as he regards her thoughtfully, like he's trying to read her. He's all sinuously coiled energy, dressed so casual yet elegant in his black pants and beige shirt that she bet money came with designer labels and a high price tag. She feels suddenly naked, all too aware that the only thing covering her is a thin robe. She crosses her arms over her chest and bites her lip, struggling to understand...everything.

_Why am I alive_? she wonders silently. _Why didn't he kill me? That night - now? He talks like he wanted to._

_Why me?_ Again, she can't make her mouth form the words, though her curiosity burns her from the inside out.

"I wonder," he says quietly, "why you don't ask me the obvious questions?"

Bella stays silent. A flash of irritation crosses his face.

"How do you know what the singer wanted?" She asks, finally.

The irritation grows, though he smiles, masking some of it. It's clear she hasn't asked the question he expected. "I read his mind."

She scowls at him. "Don't play with me." Despite the words and the doubt they convey, she feels her heart race. It's terrifying enough just knowing_ what_ he is. She still isn't certain she's absorbed that, but to think he can read her thoughts...

Edward laughs an amused sound that skitters over her skin like a touch. "Oh, my sweet little Isabella. Playing with you is the most fun I've had in centuries. I have no intention of stopping. However, I assure you, I can indeed read minds. Easily and without effort. I saw all of his thoughts as he watched you dance before him. He took you seven different ways in seven different locations in his mind before the song was complete."

Bella takes a step back, shocked. "You know what I'm thinking, right now, all this time, you..." She shakes her head, but he merely inclines his, watching her thoughtfully.

"No," he replies, quietly. "I do not know what you're thinking."

"But you said..."

"I can read the mind of every human I encounter, except yours."

"I don't understand."

"Ah, then we are on equal footing," he answers, striding back to stand directly in front of her, brow furrowed like he's frustrated. "I don't understand it, either, my beauty." His hand makes its way back to her nape, wrapping around her skin like cool bands of steel. She knows she couldn't break free if she tried, not that his restraint is necessary. Every time he touches her, all she wants is to get closer.

"You are an anomaly in so many ways, Isabella." His gaze moves, darting from her eyes, to her mouth, to the place she suspects he can witness her racing heart before following the trail of her hair where it falls to her ribcage. "I cannot read your mind. Not a thought, not an emotion. You are completely silent to me." His gaze moves back to her neck. "But your blood? Oh, little fragile human. You're blood isn't silent at all. It's been calling my name from the very second you crossed my path, and it hasn't stopped since."

He drops his head to her neck, inhaling hard. She feels the prick of something sharp against her skin, and her heart erupts in fear and something else... _Oh, God...desire...heat, all over her..._ The sweetest tension burns up her muscles, making them clench as something deep between her legs clenches, too. Terror and arousal mix and war as Edward growls, a resonate sound that rumbles up his throat and makes every hair on her body stand up. Liquid heat melts her core. She feels it gathering, and shame and desire share equal space in her body.

She can't keep her hands at her sides. They rise of their own volition and delve into his hair. She tells herself she means to push him away, but her back arches and her head falls back, and nothing about her grip on him could be construed as discouraging. It's Edward that stops, pulling his head back and away, forcing her hands to his shoulders when the movement puts him out of her reach. He growls again, and his nostrils flare. His eyes turn black, swallowing the gold that returned after they left her bedroom. The heat between her legs throbs, and she knows he is all too aware of what her body is doing.

"Such a temptation you are, Isabella." He moves behind her, his arm going around her waist and pulling her back to him so that she can feel the granite-like form of his chest, the hard cradle of his pelvis, and the even harder jut of his erection. "You ask what I want from you," he growls. "I want this." His lips press down, cool as a frosty morning, firm yet soft with the heat they ignite on her neck and down her body. "And this." His hands undo the sash at her waist and part the material, sliding fast down her stomach to the space between her legs, cupping her firmly, feeling so cool against her heat. His grip is possessive, and oh, God, it feels so good.

"I want to drink you until you're nearly drained while I fuck you until you are nearly insensate. And then, little pet, I want to do it all over again."

Desire spills out of her against his fingers, and her heart races even faster. She can't breathe and doesn't care. She wants to deny him but doesn't dare. Nothing she could say right now would be the truth anyway.

"Please..." It's all she can manage, though she has no idea what she is pleading for. Her hips are moving against his hand, and her back is arching to give him more access to her neck, and still, she is afraid. She's courting death, inviting it in, and this is insanity.

"Breathe, Isabella," Edward chuckles against her throat, and her sudden inhale catches on a sob. His fingers leave her, and he turns her around. Both hands cup her head tugging her neck back as his eyes seem to devour her face. "So fragile," he mocks, something wicked and heated dancing in those black eyes. "So foolish. You barely survived the last time, Isabella, and here you are, pleading with me for more." He tsks, the click of his tongue mocking her further.

Tears of humiliation, and strangely, rejection, fall before she can stop them. They burn like fire on their trail down her cheeks finding the curve of her lips and catching there until she licks them away. He follows the movement of her tongue with a deep-throated groan, while something in those dark eyes softens almost imperceptibly. A smirk tugs up his mouth as his thumb catches a tear at the corner of her eye.

"Tears?" he questions, staring at the stray droplet on his thumb before bringing it to his mouth and licking it away. "Do you think I don't want the same, little one?" Seductive tones of velvet lace his voice as he drops his head to kiss her. Such a kiss... Claiming, yet oddly tender, his lips press down over hers, nibbling softly, coaxing a gasp that allows his tongue entrance. He deepens the kiss, sweeping into her mouth and stealing every ounce of rational thought. Bella can't do anything except tremble and move her mouth with his, greedy for his taste and vacant of anything resembling a sense of self-protection. Her head spins; her knees buckle.

Once again, Edward steps back. The broken contact allows her to catch her breath and with it a small shred of self possession. On shaky legs she makes her way back to the bar to drain the remainder of her drink. The burn forces her eyes closed, and when she opens them he's behind the bar again, watching her, his eyes still black as coal.

He leans forward as she finds a seat on one of the benches, clutching her robe closed and fumbling with the sash.

"Ask me a question." He refills her glass.

She shakes her head. "I don't know what to ask."

He laughs. "Liar. I cannot read your mind, but I can know your head is spinning."

"What happened to Mike?" The question falls out of her mouth before she can consider whether it's such a good idea to confront him. His surprise is masked, though she catches it in the way his movement to raise his own glass falters for a brief second. He doesn't drink, just spins the glass until the contents slosh and spin as well. She thinks he sniffs it. She wonders if he can drink anything besides blood. Her skin crawls unpleasantly with the thought. Now that he isn't touching her, she's all too aware of how wrong this is. She cannot believe that only seconds ago she was aching to have him take her. Whatever he wanted, however he wanted it.

_You still do..._

Her mind taunts her. She tries not to think of the fact that if he touches her again, she would be just as helpless to resist.

"He's gone. Without a trace," she prompts, desperately trying to control some part of this night, and fearing the failure and consequence if she doesn't.

"Mike?"

"Don't act like you don't know who that is." Her tone is scathing, and she takes another drink – gold liquid courage. Her hands are shaking despite the insistence, her false bravado showing.

"Ah, yes," he replies, those pitch dark eyes flashing. "Michael Newton." Before Bella can react, he reaches out to grasp her hand, turning it so that the weak lighting falls over the mottles of discoloured flesh on her wrist. She doesn't know how it's possible, but his eyes darken further when they meet hers.

"What did you do?" Her voice is too soft, too choked, and she swallows hard over the sudden lump in her throat. Not for Mike or whatever end he's met, but for herself and her culpability in his death, because she can see what she already knew in those midnight eyes and that maddeningly gorgeous face. Mike is dead.

"Understand me, Isabella, and make no mistake," Edward tells her, one finger ghosting a sweeping touch back and forth over her wrist, hypnotizing. "I do not make idle threats. You are mine now. I will protect you, and I will possess you. I won't allow anyone to harm you. Nor will I allow anyone to think they have a claim to you. Only I have that."

"I'm not a possession or a...toy or pet."

He smirks again. "You are whatever I say you are."

She tries to stand, but his grip on her wrist keeps her from being able to move. He doesn't hurt her, but she feels the sudden tension in his grip that locks his fingers on her flesh.

"Do not think you have free will, Isabella. You're fate was decided the second you walked by me in this dismal bar. You. Are. Mine." His grip tightens. Bella feels a small spike of fear radiate from the strength that demonstrates quite clearly he could break her if he wanted to.

"I don't belong to you," she tries, her mouth dry, and her heart racing. She can say it, but she isn't sure she can mean it, because oh, the way he makes her feel, even now when her independence and will scream at her to resist, she aches with how much she likes the feel of him touching her.

"I'm a person," she continues, swallowing over her dry mouth, gathering her wits about her. "You can't...own me, and you can't kill...people. That's...wrong."

His thumb brushes her pulse, and Bella gets the sudden impression he enjoys her fear as much as he enjoys her willingness. She makes an effort to calm herself, trying not to think of Mike and failing.

"Isabella. Do not make the mistake of thinking me human," he reminds her softly, something gentle in his tone belaying the harshness of what he says. "I kill. It's what I am. It's how I live."

She shakes her head, unable to absorb it.

"I was once human," Edward tells her, watching her face, gauging her reactions so that she tries to hide them. She's never been good at that, she doubts she is now.

"Just like you, I had a life, a family, friends. I don't remember that life now beyond vague bits of useless memories, but I am _not_ human now. I have not been human for a very long time, Isabella. I survive off blood. I cannot die, but without it, I suffer a thirst and pain the likes of which you cannot fathom. Do you understand?"

He doesn't wait for her to answer, only continues, still holding her wrist, still sweeping his finger over her pulse, the touch as mesmerizing as his words and the silk tone he delivers them. So much darkness should never be spoken with so much heat.

"I've spent many decades trying to find a way of life that allows me to get what I need," he continues, missing nothing of her reactions she's certain. "What I must have, with the least amount of human suffering. I am a monster with a conscience, Isabella." He seems to give her time to absorb this, his gaze prying deeply into hers. She almost feels as though he's calling to her, asking for understanding. She feels like she's falling further under his spell.

"I have committed unspeakable acts. I don't ask you to understand or condone, only to accept that there are things in this world that don't adhere to a moral code. I'm a predator, simple as that."

"You said you have a conscience?" The idea of that doesn't match with a predator. It so obviously isn't as _'simple as that.'_

"I hunt and kill evil." He releases her wrist so suddenly she nearly falls back off the bar stool. She didn't realize the amount of tension she held in her body as she fought the pull of him.

Clutching the bar, desperately seeking some kind of anchor in this ever increasing sense of unreality, Bella stares at him.

"I know you saw the pictures in Michael Newton's apartment, Isabella. Innocent that you are, you still must have some idea of the kind of mind that would stalk a woman and plaster his walls with her image." He picks up his glass again, staring down at the liquid, frowning. "I don't need to imagine those ideas as you must. The things he thought, every twisted imagining of depravity and pain that he wished to inflict, I saw in his mind."

Bella swallows over her dry throat, wishing her glass wasn't empty as her blood runs cold. "Thoughts aren't the same as...actions. He never hurt me or...did anything to me, other than take those pictures. You could have killed someone who just needed help," she whispered, tears burning her eyes. "You don't know if he would have ever..."

She can't finish. Her stomach twists and knots, and she wonders if she's going to be sick. She thinks she might because this kind of bile black knowledge isn't something she can swallow and keep down.

_Edward is a vampire._

_Edward reads minds._

_Edward kills._

She swallows again and wonders if her mind has finally snapped. Madness after all runs in families...

. . . . . .

Edward inhales the bouquet of his whiskey, but finds it flat and stale next to the bouquet of Isabella. His control is taxed to its outmost level. She smells like the finest wine and sex. Her fear and confusion blend so erotically with her rich blood and scintillating arousal. He can smell her on his fingers where they hold the glass; the remembered feel of her plush little sex that fit so perfectly into his palm makes him contemplate other avenues of entertainment. Everything about Isabella fits so perfectly into his hands.

He tightens his control. Not yet. Soon she will be under his body, writhing like a tempest, surrendering fully to his dominance and possession, but not yet. He's enjoying his revelations, and even more, her reactions. It's been far too long since he's had a real conversation that goes beyond the exchange of – 'Please don't kill me,' and his answer of...well...he's never bothered to answer such a plea, at least not in words.

Isabella doesn't make it easy. Both her challenging of him and his ways – as though she's saying anything his own mind hasn't realized and contemplated thousands of times – and her trembling heat that calls to him in the same siren tone as her blood.

She reaches for the bottle of whiskey. Her fingers barely graze it when Edward takes it away, and she frowns at him, licking her lips, her face pale. He doesn't want her intoxicated, nor does he want her to think that she has any free will. From this point forward, at least while she is in his presence – he laments that she cannot be all the time in his presence at this point, but soothes himself with the thought of soon – everything she receives, wants, or needs will be given by his hand and his hand alone.

He tips the bottle and pours her a small measure more which she swallows in a gulp that causes her discomfort.

Fragile, so very, utterly, deliciously fragile.

"Michael Newton was beyond the realm of 'hope,' Isabella." He delivers this in a soft tone meant to soothe. "I am not so foolish as to think thought and action are the same. I understand the human mind in ways you cannot possibly fathom. I discern well the difference between the exhausted mother who thinks to shake her squalling infant in frustration, and the cold contemplation of the father who is planning to rape and murder their seven year old neighbour."

Isabella flinches and shakes her head. "I've known Mike for years. He was a douche bag, yes, but not...evil."

Edward grows impatient with her defences and leans forward with a low growl, not missing the way her heart rate spikes or the clench of fingers on her empty glass. "I planned on warning him away from you, nothing more. I do not kill innocents. I found him exiting this establishment reeking of an underage girl that he plied with alcohol and drugs and violated against the stairwell wall. Her virgin's blood no doubt still stains the cement floor if you'd like to see it. He was neither gentle nor kind, and the entire time he took her, he thought of you. He longed for her cries of pain and begging to be yours."

She shakes her head, but her eyes are wide and horrified betraying the action as nothing more than the vestiges of her failing denials.

"I saw the photographs in his mind. I sensed his growing impatience at waiting for opportunity. He was obsessed with the idea of you. An obsession that began in high school. He viewed you as pure, sweet, innocent, kind – all the things that you are – but you did not return his affections. When you began to date another, his obsession turned sour and twisted. You fell from his pedestal of perfection. What had once been obsessive daydreams about white wedding dresses and happily ever after with the one female he thought was untainted and perfect, became sexually degrading fantasies filled with your suffering and humiliation. It was only a matter of time before he acted, Isabella."

Her gaze snaps up to his, her face now so pale her eyes appear as dark as a vampire's. "What makes you so different from him? _You_ almost killed me; don't think I don't know that." Her voice delivers her condemnation as a hiss, and Edward adores her fierce strength, feeling it as pride. His little pet is no swooning frailty. No human has ever challenged him so boldly.

Edward smiles, once again moving the bottle to avoid the reaching grasp of her shaking hand. "Such a smart little thing you are; surely you know the answer to that." He leans toward her until their faces are mere inches apart and breathes his answer only just loud enough for her to hear. "Aside from the fact I do not engage in rape and sexual torture, I am different from Michael Newton in only one small way, Isabella. He never took a life. I've taken thousands. I am the true definition of a monster."

The tip of her tongue scrapes over her bottom lip before she tugs the succulent bit of flesh beneath blunt white teeth. Pushing her glass towards him, she indicates the bottle. "More," she mutters, adding a belated but sweetly uttered 'please' that he simply cannot deny. He gives her a few mouthfuls more, then places the bottle back on the shelf.

"You didn't kill me," she says, not drinking the small ration he's given her, merely wrapping her hands around the glass. She phrases the remark like a statement, but he senses she wants to know why.

"Do you want to know why?"

Something flickers over her expression, fleeting and too quick even for Edward to understand. The enigma of her silent mind stretches his patience and fuels his curiosity. Such strange bedfellows his warring emotions make. He relishes the mystery of her and abhors it in equal measure.

Isabella shrugs, her face a mask of contemplation. "Does it matter? Why is a stupid question that never really has a good answer."

Edward is further delighted by the incongruities of her mind and her intelligence. It is an accurate statement – there is, after all, a reason for a child's ceaseless repetition of the word as he or she seeks to understand the world and its workings. One 'why' merely leads to another, and another, no answer ever completely satisfactory.

"It is enough for you that I did not?" he can't help ask with amusement.

Her fingers tap an uneven rhythm onto her glass—a nervous fidget and the only outward sign of her stress. She is so utterly, delectably, difficult to read.

She shrugs again.

"_Are_ you going to kill me?" Lifting her head, she pins him with those fathomless eyes, waiting to see what she'll detect in his answer.

_Such bravery_, he thinks, though what he says out loud is, "Did you not tell me yourself that I will not harm you?"

"I don't know if I should trust anything I think right now," she replies acerbically.

Edward chuckles. She flinches a bit at the sound, and he suddenly wants to soothe her in some way. Offer her comfort. As much as he enjoys her fear at times, he realizes that it isn't conducive to what he knows he truly wants from her. She's back to gazing at the contents of her glass. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he urges her face upwards till she once again meets his gaze.

"You have sound instincts. You should trust them." The line of her shoulders eases a little at the words, but her eyes still flit back and forth between his, searching for what measure of truth she can define. "I told you, Isabella. I feel very protective of you. I will not harm you. I am many kinds of a monster, but I am not the kind who hurts innocents." _Not any more,_ he thinks to himself. Never again...no matter how close of a call it was...never again. "Your blood was a temptation I didn't know how to resist. I walked too close to the line before I realized that you, Isabella, are too much a gift to waste in such greedy gluttony."

The idea of Isabella as his, alive and well for the duration of her human life, solidifies and roots in his psyche. Until this very moment, Edward realizes he walked a precipice between wanting to deny his nature and keep her alive, and his doubts that he could do so under such extremes of temptation.

_He can._

_He will._

"I will not end your life," he repeats, letting her see the truth in his expression. She relaxes further, but before true relief is hers, he feels it necessary to add an addendum. Moving from behind the bar, he pulls her from the seat and tips her face up to his own. "You are mine now, Isabella. I will take care of you, protect you."

Edward lets her digest his words, waiting for the inevitable of the stubborn workings of a human mind. "I will give you everything you need, anything you want."

"Anything?"

"Anything in my power to grant."

He waits for it. His wilful, fierce kitten doesn't disappoint.

"Then let me go."

Edward drops his hands to his sides. Isabella shakes her head, tendrils of hair rippling over her shoulders with the force of the vehement movements.

"You know that isn't what I mean." She almost sounds despondent, her confusion so ripe in her blood and skin it perfumes her essence with her contradictory wants. Desire is still alive in her, earthy sweet arousal and longing. He can smell them all, taste them in the air surrounding her. He's denied himself long enough.

Edward's hands find the weak clumsy knot she retied in the sash of her robe. One small tug opens it, gapping the material, revealing her perfect form to his adoring gaze. He lifts her, places her on the bar top, urges her knees open though she tries to keep them closed. The perfume of her blood and sex make his teeth and cock ache in equal measure.

"Let me go," she repeats, breathless now, her emotions less contradictory as sexual need flares over her and lessens the impact of her plea. Edward's hands move up her thighs as her fingers clench into fists on the scarred bar top. "You said you'd give me anything," she reminds him. Despite her stubborn tenacity, her hips move, inching her body closer to his touch and the place she so obviously wants it. Her intimate flesh glistens with that want, so perfect, so sweetly swollen, so headily scented.

Edward places a bracing hand at the small of her back, arching her easily so that she has no choice but to brace herself and lean back on her elbows. His head drops, and he presses his mouth just above her pelvic mound, silken curls tickling his lower lip, the satin smooth skin on her abdomen against his top. He exhales against her, feeling her shuddering at the coolness of his breath over her intense heat, lifting his eyes to watch her head fall back with a purring moan as she poises on the brink of surrender.

"Look at me, Isabella," Edward commands, giving her only seconds to respond before sharply insisting, "Now."

She lifts her head, and her eyes blaze with limpid need, that plump maddening lip once again trapped beneath her bite.

"Watch," he demands simply, and lowers his mouth to her flesh, parts her with lips and tongue in one long dragging sweep. He groans at her taste, and turns his head to lick her upper thigh, allowing his tingling incisor to nick her flesh just deep enough to open the surface skin. He sucks the tiny droplet of blood away slowly, and he feels her shudder all over, panting now, whimpering. His thumb brushes over the flower petal folds of her sex, opening her to his gaze and his mouth that resumes its former place eagerly, so eagerly.

Her climax is instantaneous, and it leaves her gasping, shaking. Edward uses one finger to penetrate her body and scrape gently over that slightly raised ridge inside, sending her instantly into another series of spasms as he sucks her swollen clitoris into his mouth, dragging his teeth over it carefully. The action makes her scream as she loses all sense of propriety and restraint and comes again, and again, and again. When he senses her human body can take not one more second without blacking out, Edward moves his mouth up to the tender skin of her lower abdomen and licks, before nicking her flesh again. The wound is deeper this time, the blood pooling to the surface, trickling downwards, scarlet ribbons of liquid ambrosia gliding through desire-slick, sweat-slick, intimate flesh. Round, ruby red droplets quiver upon ivory cream and satin pink.

So beautiful, so delicious, so pure, so...his.

Lifting his head, he locks his gaze on hers, staring at her intently, his mouth dark with her blood, shining with the gloss of her climaxes. He lets her see him as he truly he is; the monster who wishes to be her angel, both her protector and her master.

"You are mine, Isabella. I will give you everything your heart could ever desire, but I will never, ever, let you go."

Edward allows her one small second to catch her breath, and to absorb the meaning and promise behind those words, before dropping his head to take his meal with his dessert. Isabella's body responds perfectly. She cries out his name in her pleasure as darkness takes her, making its claim just as surely as he has.

* * *

**A/N **Edward! Sigh. I try to make him behave, I really do, but he's just having none of it. Question is, do you want him any other way? One of my pre-readers said she needed new panties - I'm assuming she's enjoying Darkward. Another pre-reader stated she wanted to smack Edward's smirk off his face for calling Bella, pet - I'm assuming she's a little on the fence. How about you? Love him, hate him, want to take him off my hands for a little while?

;-)

As always, thanks for reading, my dearest readers.

xo

Aleea


	10. Iskušenje

A/N Huge thanks to Team Prey – SaritaDreaming, beta-extraordinaire (have you read her stuff? Seriously, you should read her stuff. Woman has more wonderful fics to choose from than colours in a box of crayons.) And my gloriously awesome pre-readers, Popola, RubyLou & radioactive77 for bolstering my courage to post this one and keeping me on track with...everything. xoxoxoxo

Thanks as well to all my amazing readers, new and old. I think I managed to reply to most of my reviewers last time but if I missed you, please know I read and treasure each and every comment I receive.

**Warning:** This chapter contains mature content meant for adult readers. Please heed the M warning of this story.

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

**Chapter 10**

**Iskušenje**

. . . . . .

_Once inside, we can conceive and believe  
In a God we can't feel..._

. . . . . .

Bella wakes up, disoriented, lost. Darkness surrounds her but her eyes adjust quickly. The familiar shapes of her bedroom furniture mix with the shadows. She's home, safe, all in one piece.

_Edward...the bar...the feel of his mouth on her..._

_How the hell did she get back here?_

_Where is he? _

She sits up too fast. The room spins. A light snaps on. Blinking, she fights for equilibrium and finds it in the dark eyes that watch her, their intensity burning through her foggy thoughts and bringing a clarity that is as stunning as he is.

The prior events rush back upon her.

_His confessions, what he is, what he's done – his declaration that she belongs to him._

He smirks as though he can read her thoughts, something he claims he cannot.

"You brought me home?" She doesn't mean to phrase it as a question, but it comes out that way, the unspoken 'why' ringing in the aftermath.

"For now," he states simply, his words implying so much she can't comprehend. Threat, promise; it's all the same to her now.

She looks at her bedside clock. The green digital numbers flash steadily in the preset standard of 12:00.

"Power went out for a while. There's a storm brewing," he tells her matter-of-factly.

Bella hears it then, the rush of wind gusting through the trees and scraping around the house. The screen door at the back of the house that never latches right must have blown open. It bangs rhythmically against the siding. Light rain patters against the windows, sounding like dozens of sharp needles pricking the glass.

"What time is it?" She glances at the windows, not surprised to see them closed, though she knows she opened them earlier.

"Midnight."

She licks her lips, her mouth dry and tasting like the alcohol she drank earlier. She's been asleep – or unconscious – for over an hour, apparently missing the ride home. Shifting her legs, she realizes she's still in her robe. The silk clings to her skin. The heat of the room is making her sweat, or maybe that's her nerves. She needs a drink. She wants to open the windows and let in the growing storm. She does neither.

A flash of lightning temporarily obliterates the shadows that cling to the corners of the room where the pale light from the lamp fails to reach. She tries to ground herself in the familiarity of seeing the clothes she wore earlier draped over a chair where she left them. Inevitably though, her gaze is drawn to him, still there, still watching her with those dark, odd eyes so unfathomable. She shivers despite the heat, but not because she's cold. No, she is the farthest thing from cold...

Edward's nostrils flare as he inhales and rises to his feet, as fluid and graceful as any predator. Bella stares at the lines of his body, mesmerized as he lifts his shirt, pulls it over his head and tosses it carelessly to her floor, announcing his intentions quite clearly.

He isn't leaving. He isn't done with her.

His skin is pale and flawless, rippled with sinuous muscles, lean and whipcord fierce. She remembers how smooth his body feels, how cool and burnished it is and the impossible strength that radiates off him...

She rises to her knees and scoots back against the headboard, her heart beating wild. Excitement and fear and arousal race through her body, drawing her muscles up into quivering little knots. The deepest one curls up tight in her core with an ache that centers itself between her legs. The feeling is sweet and hot, pulsing dampness as he moves towards her, his lethal, wickedly elegant fingers undoing his belt, the button on his pants, the zipper. A flash of v-shaped muscle flexes, and then he's there on the bed before she can truly focus and take him in. Her little move of self-protection was futile. She never even feels him move her away from the headboard – one moment its solid presence is against her back, the next all she feels is the mattress and the slight rasp of her sheets, still scented with him.

"Listen to your heart fly," Edward murmurs, his body poised over top of hers, only the barest millimetre of space between them. Fingers, cool and gentle, touch her face, ghost over her cheekbone and down to her pulse point, as though he needs tactile proof of what he hears.

He hums a sound that touches all her nerve endings while he takes her in, his dark gaze possessive and heated.

"How you please me, little beauty" he tells her, and somehow those simple words further ease that empty ache inside. Fill it up with something more, something else, something other – an odd rush of pride that he wants her, though she isn't even trying to please him, not really.

His head drops, and his mouth touches hers. Not a kiss, just an inhale and an exhale. Cool, sweetly scented breath fogs her thoughts, lulls her. Her body ignites.

"I want you, Isabella," he says, voice all wrapped in dark velvet. Words delivered with the promise of wicked pleasures. "Tell me you feel the same."

She wants to say no, wants to reclaim her sanity and stop this before it goes any farther, but she can't; she won't. It's without rhyme or reason, but oh, how she wants this, wants him. Of her own volition, she reaches up and trails her fingers along the sharp definition of his jaw, feeling the sudden tension in him that flexes beneath her fingers, rippling over the skin that only barely grazes her own. He draws back, and his eyes reflect emotion she can't read. Confusion perhaps, startled hesitation for sure. He's so beautiful it makes her ache. Something else moves in those eyes. Pain, longing. She knows those feelings well. They have been her constant companions her entire life. He's alone and empty, just like her. She doesn't question how she knows this, she simply does.

Her touch gentles as she moves to trace his mouth, his lips soft yet unyielding meeting her fingers and sending tingles of sensation shooting through her nerves. She feels lost but not alone. For the first time in her entire life, she doesn't feel alone.

Edward groans and closes his eyes. His expression a mixture of pleasure and pain. When he opens them only a second later, his eyes, awash with that vivid indescribable black, seem to devour her. Her robe opens under his touch, his hand sliding beneath her, lifting and pushing the fabric away, freeing her arms before laying her back down. The fabric bunches beneath her, mixing the feel of cool silk and the rougher texture of her sheets against her bare back. Her skin is suddenly so sensitive the dual sensations are extravagant.

"Tell me you want this, Isabella, even though I hardly need your words. Your body screams for me, little beauty, and still I want you to say it. I want to hear you give yourself to me freely."

"I want this. I want you," she replies without hesitation, her voice breathless. She can't deny him. She aches and he's the only cure. Even if it means accepting all this madness, she can't say no, can't find the will to push him away. Instead, her body curves up to his, arching off the bed until their skin connects. Sparks fly, electric pulses jolt, and as if it must keep up the storm begins in earnest, spiking the room with lightning, pelting the windows with sheets of rain. Bella hardly notices when the light goes out, the power failing once more. Nothing is darker than his eyes or this place she's falling into...nothing.

. . . . . .

Edward hisses at her words, and then again at the contact of her naked, hot skin against his as she arches like a perfect little wanton against him. He feels the curve of her breasts, and the slopes of her concave stomach, the sharp satin-covered edges of her hipbones, and the silky hair on her sex. She keeps herself as a woman should, neat but feminine, clean yet natural. His mouth waters copiously at the remembered honeyed taste of her. He plans to have her taste in his mouth again, soon.

Unable to resist, he dips his head to hers and takes her mouth. Not even the alcohol she consumed can taint her delicate flavour. Her mouth is a hot, wet-honey paradise, and he dips his tongue inside, flickering into its shadowed recesses to capture her full essence. Her whimpering response draws his cock up tight against his abdomen, full and rigid, aching. He shifts to give it a place to rest between her thighs, silken skin parting to accept him, wetter and plusher and even more inviting than her mouth. He glides back and forth, continuing to kiss her, swallowing her gasp and the moans that follow, one after the other.

Isabella suddenly trembles and comes, so sweetly, so perfectly, drenching him in more heat and liquid, making his back and forth glide easier. She needs air so he drops his head to her neck, licking her fluttering pulse. Thunder erupts loudly, covering his guttural growl as he joins her, spilling violently against the top of her sex, her stomach, coating her in his essence, marking her as his.

Primal instincts flare, possessiveness radiating off him as he lifts her closer, moving his mouth to her breasts. Her nipples are sharp-hard, her chest covered in a deep-rose flush – a clear marker of both her orgasm and her continuing arousal. She says his name, and he feels..._alive_.

With a low growl he spins her fast, tumbling her lush body over and rising to part his legs so he can straddle the back of her thighs. His hands grasp down on her hips hard enough to leave the imprint of his hands in red marks that flare brightly against her porcelain flesh. His mouth tastes the nape of her neck, the bumps all the way down her spine. His incisors tingle, descending farther down from his gums. He scrapes them over the perfect taut globes of her ass, relishing her sweet, shocked cry born on an exhale that soaks the room in her perfumed breath. His tongue trails down the seam, gliding over the length of that deep split.

"No, Edward...God, what...don't."

Her breathless pleas match the clench of her shocked muscles, but he only laughs low in his throat. His hands tighten further on her hips as he lifts her lower half helplessly off the bed, dragging his tongue lower to taste the richness of her arousal as she fists the sheets in clenched fingers. Her denying gasp turns to a sound of pure pleasure, her thighs pushing outward to open herself more for him. She shudders and heaves, a delicate, fragile creature caught in his arms, helpless to whatever he wants.

_Perfect, so perfect, so responsive, so his..._

His cock aches, wanting the place where his tongue is. Rising, he slides one arm underneath her, laying his palm flat between her breasts and lifting her until her back is flush with his chest, both of them on their knees. He turns her head to kiss her deeply, taking her mouth so she can taste her own sweetness, so she can know how perfect she is for him.

Lightning flashes, turning her skin silvery white and incandescent. The power flickers on, and the artistry of her changes, the pale light washing her in gold now, as though he needs more proof of what a treasure he's found. Edward cups her sex and slides a finger inside the sheath of her, keeping her on the knife edge of arousal. She's so drenched...ah, his sweet Isabella. His, for always. He will never let her go, never...

"So hot for me, Isabella, so ripe. I feel you clenching around me, trembling, right here, so deep." He adds a second finger and she cries out, pushing against his touch, her back arching, pushing her pert breasts into his other hand as he takes a nipple and strokes it with his thumb, back and forth against the tightly beaded tip. He presses the base of his other thumb against her clitoris, letting it rock against that hot, swollen little bud with each plunge and withdraw of his fingers. She cries out once more and the lights flicker, again and again, yet somehow stay on. She's gloriously oblivious to the faltering electricity and the howling wind, the tree branches that creak and crack, and the leaves that are torn free, swirling against the house. Her hips rock, trying to make him go faster, deeper, to give her more, to give her release. He slows his movements and relishes her whimper of frustration.

Scraping his teeth against the curve of her ear gently, he smiles, whispering low and sensuous, "Do you want to come, my Isabella? Do you want to come all over my fingers, sweet little lamb?"

"_Please_," she begs, perfectly desperate, trembling, her skin dewed with perspiration, a new flavour to savour. Edward drops his head and licks her satiny skin where her neck meets her shoulder, groaning at the taste of her and the promise of the taste to come when he sinks his teeth... _Not yet_; _not tonight._ He draws back and tightens his restraint. Soon he will drink from her, but he's taken enough already. He must be careful. She's so fragile, so breakable...

"Please what, Isabella? Tell me what you want, my beauty, what you need."

"You," she gasps. "I want you. I need you."

Such a perfect answer; more proof that she is meant to be his and his alone.

Withdrawing his touch has her gasping and pleading, but he merely captures her hands in his and raises them to the headboard, placing her grasp over the top.

"Hands on the headboard, Isabella. Do not let go. Eyes closed. Breathe. You're going to need air in your lungs to scream my name," he orders. Then, in one smooth arch he bends her, takes her hips and draws her back until her arms are extended in front of her.

Edward watches her hands clench down tightly to keep her grasp from slipping, the muscles in her arms pulling taut, the line of her spine straight as an arrow. Such grand obedience. He lowers his head to the small of her back, kissing her spine while reaching lower to part the curves of her behind and press his thumb to the tight rosette he exposes. She cries out, half fear half embarrassment, but he merely strokes over the flesh and all those rich nerves, gentle yet insistent.

"You're all mine, Isabella. Every inch, every spot, every part of you, is mine. Do you understand? I will show you pleasure you've never dreamed of, little one, but I won't be denied. Not tonight, not ever."

He moves and places the tip of his cock where she's so wet she soaks the head of him in liquid fire, making his jaw snap shut and his unnecessary breathing halt in his throat. A deep growl is born in the place his air lays trapped. Never has he known pleasure like this, sensation this good, this pure and untainted. Not even quenching his fiery thirst matches this for there is no niggling or unwanted guilt here, only pleasure – his, hers, _theirs_.

Isabella's hips move back, her fingers nearly slipping from the headboard in her quest to get him inside of her. Breathing again, Edward chuckles. "So impatient, my beauty."

She sobs and he relents, flexing his hips and sliding inside of her slowly, so slowly. All the more to tease her and to prolong the incredible feel of her femininity opening for him, engulfing him. She's so tight, hot..._Christ_, he can hardly stand to move slowly. The stolen blood in his veins seems to boil, his cock hardening even more, stretching until he's enveloped in her as deep as he can possibly go. One hand glides up her back, pressing down lightly on the center to keep her in place. The other slips around her waist and down to cup her sex. Making a V shape, he rests two fingers on either side of her clitoris, drawing back its silky little hood and fully exposing her sensitive nerves to the air of the room as he begins to thrust. The action denies her the stimulation she needs to climax, prolonging both her pleasure and her agony of frustrated need.

Her agony is his as the pleasure of her tight clutch and the friction of their bodies sends his senses reeling. The storm lashes the house, only now he's just as oblivious as her. The lights flicker again and go out, plunging the room into darkness that neither of them notices. Nothing exists, nothing except this rocking, heated, thrusting movement that takes them both into a place of pure need, pure desire. He groans and growls, the sounds born out of his mouth without his control. She whimpers and moans, crying out again and again, pleading with him.

"Please, Edward...oh, God, please, please."

"Not yet, Isabella, not yet." His mastery over her is too sublime to end, and he wants her to understand the pleasures he can give her if she only submits to his will.

Her skin grows as slick as her sex, the heat in the room delicious, making her sweat for him. Her entire body is drawn tight like a bow with the most perfect arch, gorgeous in her tension. He finds the place inside of her that makes her nearly weep, strokes his cock over it again and again until she's shaking in her need, until he would shake as well if it were possible. He grips her hair and tugs back, growling her name as she tightens around him even more, impossibly more. His hand skates down her back to return to her sweet little ass, thumb dipping to where they're joined then back up to that forbidden passage, again and again until she's as slippery there as she is everywhere else. _Nothing_ is or will be taboo, and she's too far gone to deny him. Tight, gripping restraint melts away and she cries out loudly, pushing back, accepting the dark, naughty invasion, denying him nothing.

The feel of her submission, her body open in all ways, makes him burn with pleasure. "Yes, perfect, my little beauty. Good, so good, such a good girl..."

"Please. God! I need to...come, Edward...please."

She's lost all restraint, all sense of propriety and manners, exactly as he wants. She exists only as his, only for this moment with him. Edward's fingers squeeze closed over her clitoris as he presses inside of her harder, teasing her bottom with shallow little thrusts of his thumb, her sex with deep, penetrating thrusts of his cock, growling, growling... He can feel his own need to come boiling within him, heat and tension coiling together in ever increasing delight.

"Yes, now, Isabella. Come for me now." He rocks his squeezed fingers in quick little bursts, fast, faster, and she screams, coming and coming for him, so beautifully. Edward doesn't let up, not once, dragging another climax from her on the heels of the first until he can resist no longer and lets himself go, releasing inside of her while he clenches his jaw shut to keep from taking her blood, teeth gnashing together as he spills..._and spills and spills and spills_. Deep, jetting pulses that feel as visceral as the blood that pumps from a victim's carotid artery...

Edward pulls away from her as the pleasure wanes and his thirst rages. She collapses against the damp sheets, gasping and nearly insensate, unaware of how dangerous this moment could have been. He moves to lie beside her, turning her on her side and drawing her close to him, cradling her spent sublime body and kissing her slack, warm mouth. Slowly, still testing the edges of his control, he lifts her wrists as her eyes flutter open and wearily, warily, watch him. She's so beautiful in her satiated state that something in his chest aches, making him only want to cradle her closer, to keep her forever; _he will keep her forever._

He runs his tongue over her wrist and she shivers, dark brown bottomless eyes watching him closely. A tiny nick, a small suckle, the perfume of her released blood almost stronger than the meagre taste he allows himself. It coats his tongue and throat, soothing the dry burn. Gently he licks her again, sealing the small wound, placing a gentle kiss for good measure.

Isabella shivers again and Edward pulls her closer, taking her leg and draping it over his thigh, rejoining their bodies smoothly and effortlessly with the slickness that covers them both.

"Oh," she gasps, eyelids fluttering closed. "No, I can't...oh. Edward, no, not like last time, I can't take it like that again, please..."

"Fragile little human," he teases laughingly, flicking his tongue across her lip, a gentle lash that makes her moan.

"I can't..." she repeats breathlessly. A false denial since he can already feel her body trembling in that now familiar way, her reactions committed to his eidetic memory.

"Yes, you can," he tells her, rocking forward, backwards, moving his mouth from her wrist to her fingers, wetting the tips of two and moving them between their bodies. "Easy this time, little beauty. Slow and easy, no restraint just let go; fall into me, over me – come for me." With gentle insistence he presses them right over her sensitive clitoris, stroking softly, their fingers linked together as her head falls back and she proves him perfectly, beautifully, erotically right as she bows to his will and his guiding touch – _coming, coming_...

"My Isabella. Such a good girl." He chuckles against her lips, kissing the whimpers from her mouth and swallowing them whole, relishing the taste of her fading climax on her breath.

"Mine," he reminds her, more determined than ever to make her accept her fate. "Forever mine, Isabella."

The bedside clock continues to flash twelve as the storm dies away and their bodies move, slow and gentle now for his delicate human. Her hands fist in his hair as he moves over top of her, velvet warm thighs wrapping around his hips as he coaxes more whimpers and sounds of pleasure from her throat. He watches her, and her eyes open, drowsy and full of repletion that makes him harder inside of her with pride and desire. She draws him in as his body rapidly nears release. Just before his head falls back to keep his aching teeth away from her flesh, denying himself yet again for her safety, he has a moment to wonder if he isn't as much hers as she is his.

. . . . . .

Jake rubs his eyes and leans back in his chair, trying to ease the kink in his back. They've been at this for hours. Running through several computer programs searching for any trace of Mike Newton has been gruelling and labour intensive. They've also broken several laws, but the heartburn and headache he's suffering have nothing to do with a guilty conscience. "This is ridiculous," he groans wearily, his patience fading. "How the hell can there be nothing. Not a God damn trace."

Seth stretches his back as well, joints snapping pleasurably as he shuts his laptop, looking at Jake in half apology, half exasperation. "It's pretty simple, man. There's nothing because Newton hasn't used a credit card or made any ATM withdrawals, paid for anything with debit, checked into any motel or..."

"I know that, but it doesn't make any sense," Jake replies harshly, cutting Seth off. "He's been missing for over a week. No one in this day and age carries enough cash to get away without needing to use credit or at least hit a bank machine for this long. This is bullshit, Seth. Are you sure you've got this program running right?"

Reaching for the last slice of cold pizza in the box on Jake's desk, Seth shrugs, unaffected by Jake's temper. He's used to it. Most people in Jake's life are. "It's working fine, just like I told you the last ten times you asked."

From across the room, sprawled lazily on the beat up old couch, Quil cracks his knuckles and sighs, tossing the folder he was reading on the floor, risking Jake's ire further.

Jake reins it in, just barely, and strides over to pick it up and shuffle the papers back in neatly, giving Quil a warning glare.

"The cops have nothing," Quil says around a jaw-cracking yawn, pointing at the folder. "Nothing in there but basic evidence from the pictures and the initial missing persons report issued by his parents. Embry says it'll be weeks before they get DNA off the sheets in Newton's apartment, or positive confirmation from the fingerprints they lifted off the photos and walls. A hundred bucks says they won't get anything off them anyway. Fingerprints will be Newton's; DNA off the bed will probably be the creep's as well from his wank sessions over..." He quickly thinks twice about using Bella's name when Jake's jaw clenches so hard the muscles twitch under the pressure.

Jake manages to ignore Quil and tosses the folder on his desk, frustrated. He gleaned the same information when he read the paperwork himself after he nearly dragged them out of Embry physically. The photocopied police forms show nothing, but he hoped a second pair of eyes might turn up something useful. Not going to happen. Wherever Newton is, he doesn't want to be found. Either that or someone else doesn't want him to be found.

"Seth, what have you turned up on that band that was playing the last night Newton was seen?"

"I've got their tour schedule right here," he answers, holding up a sheet for Jake. "Looks like they'll be playing in a few places in Seattle over the next week."

Jake nods, making note of the days and locations, his mind spinning.

"Thinking about going out there and asking questions?" Quil asks.

"Thinking about it," Jake replies.

Quil snorts and rolls his eyes. "You should leave this to the cops, Jake. Embry said he's already spoken to them on the phone. Newton isn't with them."

Jake shrugs, trying to flex some of the tension out of his shoulders and neck. "I think an in-person visit might be a little more enlightening. Who's to say Newton's not with them and they're not covering for him by lying?"

Quil shrugs as well, watching Jake with amusement, his expression all too clearly conveying that he knows damn well what Jake will do. "Don't you think Chief Swan would have thought of that already?"

Jake huffs an exhale in irritation at the mention of the man he practically considered a father-in-law not too long ago. "I think Charlie is used to dealing with vandalism and stolen bikes rather than serious shit like this, Quil. That's what I think."

Standing up, Quil cracks his knuckles then fishes his keys out of his pocket, studying Jake with a suddenly wary expression. "This is just my opinion, and you can take it or leave it, but I say good riddance to bad garbage. Sounds to me like Newton doing a disappearing act is a good thing, Jake. Let the cops do their job."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Quil," Jake fires back. "You didn't see those fucking pictures...Christ. He's been following Bella around for years, man." He makes another effort to control his anger, shaking his head at the whole situation as he sinks back down in his chair.

"Look," Quil tries again, but Jake just holds up his hand and cuts him off.

"Don't, just don't. You don't know, man. I was there in that apartment with all those pictures. I saw her face, Quil. I saw Bella's face, and she was just...sick, and that's not even the half of it. Charlie and I didn't even show her the damn photo album the twisted fucker had stashed away. I still don't even know how he got half of _those_ pictures."

"What are you talking about? There's no photo album mentioned in the police report, or did I miss something?" Quil strides to the desk reaching for the folder again, but Jake waves him off.

"There isn't anything about it in there, and there won't be either. Charlie destroyed it."

Quil blinks at this. Charlie Swan is known for his hard-ass, by the book, to the letter of the law, mentality. Saying he destroyed evidence is like saying he wouldn't haul Quil's ass in for possession if he saw the stash he has in his glove box right now.

"You never heard this," Jake tells him, his expression tight with warning as he looks at Seth as well. He runs a hand over his face, suddenly dead tired. The feeling he got when he looked at that album, like his guts were going to churn inside out, returns with a vengeance, making him regret the half a pizza he gulped an hour ago. Leaning forward, he swipes a stack of papers carelessly to the side, wanting to close his eyes and lay his head down right there on the cleared space, though he resists.

"What was in the album, Jake?" Quil asks him quietly, like he's afraid a louder tone will set him off.

Jake exhales and stares at the floor with an unfocused look, his mind supplying images he wishes like hell he could wipe from his brain. "More pictures – some of Bella but messed up, photo-shopped. Sick shit with her head but some other girl's naked body all bound up in ropes and chains, bloody, gagged... Fuck, just some really wrong hardcore BDSM stuff." He reaches out and grabs his half-finished beer, gulping down the piss-warm contents with a grimace, the drink doing nothing for his churning guts or the memories. "Pictures of her and me...personal pictures..."

"Personal as in...intimate kind of stuff?" Seth ears get a little pink as he stammers out the question.

Jake nods, fists clenching on the arms of his chair.

"How the hell did he get pictures like that?" Quil asks, looking suddenly murderous.

Exhaling roughly, Jake can only shake his head at his own stupid naive ass. "The Res bonfire on First Beach last year. Everyone left; I thought we were alone. We went for a swim. I put some blankets down by the fire..." He gets to his feet, unable to stay sitting with the memory of those pictures eating him alive. Newton was there that night. Lurking somewhere close enough to get damn good quality images of them while Jake was oblivious. Completely fucking oblivious. When he thinks of it, the urge to puke grows until he wonders if it's inevitable and eyes the garbage can by his desk.

"You got laid at a Res bonfire? Dude!" Seth snorts an inappropriate laugh, and Jake spins around, fire evident in his eyes. Seth leans back nervously at the look, and Quil, closest to Seth, cuffs him on the back of his head knocking him forward again. The old office chair creaks ominously at the rocking motion but holds together.

"Shit, Seth. Don't you have any couth?" Quil snaps.

Jake, continuing to glare, shakes his head. "I _made love_ to my _girlfriend_ after a Res bonfire when we thought everyone else was long gone, yes," he corrects, holding onto his cool by a hair. "Watch your mouth, Seth, when you're talking about Bella." Then softer and full of his shock and disappointment in himself, "I never knew that fucker was there. Christ, I can't believe I didn't know he was there."

Seth swallows and shifts. "Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to be...couthless."

Quil snorts a short laugh, and Jake tries to let some of his tension go. Seth is a good kid, a little clueless sometimes, but good.

"Jake, don't blame yourself." Quil sits on the edge of Jake's desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "No one suspected Newton. You can't take this on yourself, man."

"Yeah, I can, Quil. You don't get it, do you? This is Bella we're talking about. Bella! I should have seen what he was doing. I should have kept it from happening."

"Jake, one of these days you're going to have to accept that you can't always protect Bella. She's not a damsel in distress..."

"You didn't see her face when she saw those pictures, Quil."

"I'm sure she was upset; anyone would be, but, man, you've gotta take a step back here. Newton's gone, and I get that you want to know where he is, I get that you want to keep her safe, but this whole knight in armour thing you've got going on with her, it's not healthy. She cut you loose, Jake. She's not yours to protect anymore. You need to let go a little."

The whole time Quil talks, Jake knows the tenuous hold he's got on his temper is about to slip. His hands slide effortlessly into clenched fists and his blood pounds in his brain. He feels the familiar fine tremors in his muscles starting – the same quiver in his joints and bones that always accompany his rages.

Seth shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat as though looking for something to say, and coming up empty, decides to just make some kind of distracting noise.

Jake ignores him, levelling a look that should have made Quil back off; except Quil isn't looking at him, he's staring at a spot on the carpet, his expression contemplative and conflicted.

"You need to shut up, Quil," Jake tells him warningly, his tone of voice tight.

"Look, man, I'm just trying to have your back," Quil responds. His temper is nothing compared to Jakes, but he's getting mad himself.

"Having my back means being there for me when I'm trying to look after my girl."

"That's just it, Jake," Quil answers, his voice too quiet, his arms dropping to his sides in exasperation. "She's not yours anymore. She hasn't been for a long time. For all you know," he continues, voice growing softer but the inflection changing, something flashing in his eyes – pity maybe, concern definitely – "she's moving on. You need to do the same, brother."

"What the hell are you saying?" Jake steps toward him, his body tight and ready for action. He crowds Quil's space, forcing him to stand up. Jake towers over Quil, his expression lethal, his superior strength apparent in the width of his shoulders and the bulk of his muscles.

"Calm down," Quil demands, and Jake snaps like a rubber band stretched too tight. In one move too fast to follow, he shoves Quil, catches him by the shirt collar and bunches it in his fist before the force of that shove moves Quil an inch. He hauls him up, and Quil finds himself pinned against a wall, the impact nearly knocking the air out of his lungs.

"Don't tell me to calm the fuck down, ever," Jake snarls, his voice oddly quiet despite the anger in him. His body settles into that peculiar state where he feels disconnected and powerful. The rage isn't hot, it's cool. His senses feel heightened, his concentration absolute and crystal clear. Only the slight tremor remains, and even that is muted, like quivering electric pulses rather than jumping shocks. "Now, tell me what the fuck you're trying to say." He says this last through clenched teeth.

Quil doesn't bother to struggle. He's been in this position before with Jake. He knows he can't break the hold, that it's futile to even try.

"Fine," he spits, mad but wary enough to know crossing Jake right now would be a very bad idea. "I was there the night Newton disappeared, at the Twilight Tavern. I saw Bella. I was outside, smoking a cigarette, waiting for Claire to come out of the bathroom so we could head home. Bella had some words with Newton. I don't know what was said, but he looked pissed and so did she. Next thing I know, Newton's storming past me and Bella's walking away."

"So the fuck what?"

Quil shakes his head. "You don't get it, man. She didn't leave alone. She was with someone. She was with another guy."

Jake freezes, staring hard at Quil as though looking for some proof that he's telling the truth.

"Let me go." Quil's demand is met with stony silence. He waits, and finally after what seems like a long time, Jake releases him though he stays close, not moving an inch back or giving Quil any space.

"Who was she with?" The question is delivered like an order. Quil doesn't even think about refusing to answer.

"I don't know. Never seen him before."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to hear it."

"It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?"

Jake feels the heat in his body reignite. His concentration is still intense, except now his body wants action, not quiet watchfulness. He finally moves away from Quil, crossing the room away from bodies he can hurt. At the far wall, he pulls his fist back and slams it forward. The action drives his hand through plaster and lathe as a sound leaves his throat that sounds suspiciously like a howl.

. . . . . .

* * *

A/N So... (blushes) That lemon was a bit *ahem* out of my comfort zone. I sincerely hope you all liked it.

As for the second half of this chapter, it's my intention to show a Jacob who makes sense. This isn't teen-wolf Jacob from the series crushing on Bella like a dog getting all possessive over a bone that's not his. In this story, Jake and Bella have a deep history and connection. They've lived together and loved together in a serious long-term relationship. He's struggling here, but he's entitled to that. I hope that is coming through, but you tell me?

For those of you who have left comments regarding your worries that this is a triangle story, I ask you to bear with me. We're less than halfway through and there are still lots of pieces to fall together.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

xo

Aleea


	11. Pokusa

**A/N** Huge thanks to Team Prey - my beta _**Saritadreaming**_ and my pre-readers _**Popola, rubylou, and radioactive77**_. You guys really stepped up to the plate for me on this one. I think about what this chapter would be like without the invaluable feedback of my pre-readers or the editing skills of my beta, and well, I just shudder.

**Disclaimer** - Twilight characters belong to SM. Lyrics under the chapter belong to The Tea Party. The rest is all just my twisted imagination under Preyward's influence.

Enjoy!

_**Warning**__ - The following contains material written for adult readers..._ But you all know that by now...right? ;-)

Just a reminder - last chapter Jake discovered that Bella did not leave the club alone the night Mike Newton disappeared. This chapter continues on from the point where he leaves his shop, angry and upset.

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

**~ xXx ~**

Chapter 11

**Pokusa**

. . . . . .

_I can't feel it.  
I can't feel it.  
I can't feel…_

. . . . . .

The truck hits the road, its heavy metal chassis and the rain slick asphalt muting the satisfying sound of screeching tires that Jake would have liked to hear. The road is deserted. As soon as he completes his turn, he guns it, coaxing lacklustre speed out of a reluctant engine. He hates this truck. He bought it for Bella but when they broke up, she refused to keep it.

"Stubborn. Independent. Prideful." The words spit out of his mouth as he tries to grind the gas pedal into the floor. "Damn it, Bella. God damn it!" He speaks out loud as if she's there, and he doesn't miss the fact that he's used those exact words to describe her a hundred times in the past. Maybe more.

The inanity of yelling into empty space finally settles him. He's still seeing red, but at least he starts breathing without sounding like he just ran a marathon. Easing up on the gas—not like the rust bucket is going to give him the speed he wants anyway—Jake contemplates his next move.

When he left the shop, his intent was to head straight for Bella's and demand answers. He still has a key; he still pays half the damn mortgage, though that's only because Bella has no choice. Her lousy paycheque from Newton's Outfitters wouldn't cover the full cost, and they both agreed during one of their saner conversations after their split that the smart thing in a lousy housing market would be to wait a year or two. Finish the renovations they planned before trying to sell.

Those arguments still taste bitter in his mouth. He wanted to pay half the utilities as well as have her keep the truck. He bought it for her. The pink slip has her name on it. He has another car for Christ's sake. But Bella wouldn't budge on either. She rationalized that he would get his money back from the mortgage payments when they sold the house, so she was willing to make that '_concession,_' as she called it. But she still acts like it's going to kill her to take the cheque out of his hands every damn month.

For his part, he feels like the world's biggest ass for leaving her without a vehicle, even if it wasn't his choice. When she first kicked him out, he left the truck at the house, figuring she'd use it once she calmed down. Bella just cancelled the insurance, which was in her name because she insisted on paying it in full herself, and then let it sit there in the driveway, gathering more rust and getting slowly blanketed in bird shit. Finally she called him and threatened to have it towed to a junk yard if he didn't come and pick it up. He was tempted to let her on principle. The only reason he finally caved was because he'd put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into the damn hunk of junk, and at least if he had it she could borrow it whenever she wanted.

Bella never wanted. She still doesn't. Forks is small. She takes a bus to work and to the grocery store when the weather is bad, or she catches rides with Jess, Angela or Ben. The rest of the time she walks, even if it's raining. One day she cut her hand and needed stitches. She walked half an hour in freezing cold sleet to Forks General with a facecloth duct-taped to the wound. She never once called him.

Bella has always been the independent type. From the moment he met her, he realized she took care of herself and everyone close to her, never the other way around. God forbid she ever accept a simple fucking gift of any kind.

Back then, he chose not to make a big stink about it. He put the VW Rabbit he'd restored in the garage under the bullshit pretence of it needing more work, and let her believe they were sharing the truck. It enabled him to spend more time with her, and he was fine with a little white lie if it meant he knew she could get where she needed to go, safe and dry.

Now he minds. Because _he's_ in the truck safe and dry, and _she's_ not. Because the money is nothing to him—he makes three times as much as she does and lives rent free. Because back then, he could make damn sure she had an extra twenty or two in her wallet—she was stubbornly independent, but notoriously forgetful about cash and little slips of paper, receipts, bills, that kind of shit. Probably still is.

Jake scrapes a hand through his hair, cursing as he wonders for the millionth time how she's managing to pay the utilities and keep herself fed off the piddly-ass wage that shyster Mr. Newton Senior pays her. Three months ago, Jake paid Mr. Newton a visit and made damn sure Bella got a raise. It wasn't much. It wasn't enough, but it was better than what she was getting before. Still...

Bella is low maintenance. Unlike a lot of women, she isn't into fashion. She dresses well but doesn't follow trends or need designer labels. She isn't into shoes and avoids high heels like the plague. Her one indulgence is books. They're like crack cocaine to her. Jake doubts she's had a fix in months, other than what she might be able to scrounge at the local used book store. Her only other addiction is expensive coffee she drowns in milk and sugar, and he knows for a fact she isn't buying that anymore because he saw the jar of generic store brand instant shit sitting on her counter just the other day.

He knows the utilities are getting paid because his name is still on the accounts. He can check them online, which he does every month, determined to step in and make up any difference if she doesn't pay the full amount. She always does.

He crunches numbers in his head—again. She makes enough, but just barely, and there's no way she has anything left over. Jake has an image of her walking past the ice cream she likes in the grocery store with her chin held high, heading for the bargain bins where she'll never find the white flaked tuna in water she prefers or the big red strawberries shipped from Mexico.

"Fuck!" he snarls, pounding his fists on the steering wheel. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He knew she wanted to take some classes at the community college. That she didn't talk much about it but she wants to have her own catering business someday. Jake planned to start putting money away to help her as soon as the shop started pulling in a solid profit.

She needs someone to take care of her. She deserves it. When he lived with her, he made damn sure there was ice-cream in the freezer, strawberries in the fridge, and all the expensive-ass coffee she could drown, ruin, and drink. He made sure there was a little cash in her wallet and a roof that didn't leak over her head, even if it meant climbing up the side of the house to repair it in the damn pouring rain.

Now she has no one.

"_She didn't leave alone. She was with someone. She was with another guy."_

Quil's words from earlier echo in his head, no less painful now than they were then, mocking him. After Jake ran into Jess at the diner last week, then went to Bella's and found her lock broken, he tried to convince himself Jess was wrong about Bella hooking up with someone. Jess mistakenly thought it was Jake who left some hickey on Bella's neck, so she wasn't exactly a reliable source of factual information. Hearing from Quil though that he actually witnessed Bella walking home with some guy, makes it impossible for Jake to keep up the pretence that his instincts after seeing her weren't rock solid.

He curses and makes a sharp right at the light. It takes him away from the temptation of Bella's. He trusts Charlie. He'll have her house being watched, and besides, Jake knows the mood he's currently in is written all over his face. Bella would take one look at him and refuse to listen to a word he'd say, that is if she even let him in the door.

The truth is, he doesn't know what to say anyway, beyond demanding who she was with that night, or fighting with her again over the truck or the bills or...them, being together the way they used to be. And, yeah, none of that would go over well.

"Fuck!"

"_She's not yours to look after anymore, Jake."_

He drives, seemingly aimless, his head a mess, his chest hurting. He thinks about all the ways he and Bella were right, and then forces himself to think about all the ways they were wrong.

He lights a cigarette and drives out of Forks, heading for the Reservation without any real conscious decision.

Bella has the right to date. He can't stop her, but damn it, some random guy? If Quil didn't know him, he can't be from around here. Jake's jaw grinds. Some outsider then. Is he still here? Forks is a small town. Strangers get talked about, but Jake's head has been buried in work and now this shit with Newton, so he hasn't exactly been on top of the local gossip mill.

His brain churns. Newton disappears, and some other guy appears. Coincidence? Probably, but his brain doesn't let it go. He's never been a big believer in coincidence.

He thinks about that and coincidences in general as he realizes he's driven himself to Leah's and is parked outside, staring at her door.

He doesn't know why he's here when he's been avoiding her calls all day. He does know she deserves better than him showing up in the middle of the night. It doesn't stop him from getting out and walking up to knock on her front door, though.

He has no answers, no plan. Jake just knows he doesn't want to be alone tonight, and he hopes Leah feels the same.

. . . . . .

The storm dies down slowly in increments. The cloud cover thins out, and snatches of the moon bathe Bella's bedroom in intermittent washes of eerily soft silver light. She lies across Edward's chest, her head somehow fitting perfectly in the cool concave between his shoulder and chest. The fingers of his left hand brush lightly back and forth over her hip, occasionally dipping down to where her thigh rests over his. She knows without looking that his other arm is extended upwards, his hand resting on the top of her headboard. She knows because she hears his fingers occasionally tap and rub across the wood. In a foggy aside, she wonders if she left fingernail grooves there. Probably not, but it wouldn't surprise her if she had.

"_Hands on the headboard, Isabella..."_

She's beyond lethargic and sleepy, and still she feels heat under her skin at the memory of his words, the prickle of over sensitive nerves between her legs.

A low rumble beneath her ear tells her he's laughing softly. A hand taps the headboard, another tickles a path around her hip. He moves too fast for her senses and suddenly she's on her back, staring up at pitch-black eyes, their unnatural ring of red, subtle before, now seems to blaze too close to the colour of blood for comfort. She wonders where the gold went. His ever changing eye color makes her head spin.

"What?" she gasps, unable to control the spike of unease that comes so closely on the heels of all the other feelings he creates in her. It's strange to go from feeling nearly peaceful a minute ago to this. He never gives her long to settle, constantly shocking her with actions and mannerisms that prove he's not human. She thinks he does it on purpose.

Edward smiles with a flash of perfect teeth, small but wicked looking incisors and sensual, mocking lips. He balances his weight effortlessly on an arm he crooks above her head, locking her into him, surrounded on every side. His other hand flips palm up, and he trails the back of his knuckles down the skin on a cheek still warm with the blush her memories evoked.

"I could ask the same," he replies, the tone of his voice a heated contrast to the cool wash of his breath, "but I don't think I need to." He drops his head, and his tongue touches her bottom lip, a cool tingling swipe that has hers reaching out in return to taste the moisture he leaves behind.

Snow and cinnamon and vanilla, and...something else. Something dark, nearly bitter and dangerous... Blood. Her blood.

_God, oh, God._

"Every secret your mind keeps, your traitorous little body is so eager to divulge." He tuts teasingly, a simple cluck of his tongue, taunting yet delighted. His hand moves away from her cheek and down her neck, knuckles pausing momentarily on her pulse, his eyes never leaving hers. The pause is brief, and Bella loses her ability to breathe normally when he strokes the hollow of her throat, the skin between her breasts.

"Hm," he murmurs as though in contemplation. His hand flips palm down now, large enough when he splays his fingers outward they brush her suddenly tight nipples, making her gasp. "What does your body tell me now I wonder? Are you ready for me again?"

She isn't. Not remotely. She barely has the energy for these emotions and feelings; anything more and she fears she'll just pass out. And still heat spikes where she is tender and bruised feeling. She wants to say no, but her body wants to say yes. Not even in this is her head in agreement.

"Hm," he repeats, playing with her. "Perhaps not yet. You really are such a fragile thing, and I have been utterly remiss in my care of you."

Edward is gone before she can respond to that, before she can tell him she's not fragile and doesn't need anyone to care for her. The words are on the tip of her tongue, but she'd be releasing them to nothing more than an audience of humid, dark air.

Frustration prickles her nerves, though even that doesn't last. She's too tired and out of her element. He leaves, and she's spinning in his wake. He's back before her, and she's too dazzled to be coherent.

She is plucked from the bed like a tiny child; his arms, cool behind her knees and her back, have no more give than honed marble. He carries her to the small bathroom, and the niggling sound she was only barely aware of seconds ago becomes clear. He's stoppered her big claw-foot tub, and the gurgle of water splashes against the old porcelain surface. She catches the delicate, inviting scent of lavender and realizes he's found her small, ever-dwindling bottle of bath oil. It's expensive, a gift from Jessica for her birthday last year. She wants to be angry that he's used it—it isn't like she can afford more—but it's too late, and she's too weary.

She doesn't complain when he sets her down and holds out his hand, gesturing to the tub in a way that conveys he wants her to step in. Reaching down, she flicks fingers in the water, not surprised to find the temperature perfect.

He smirks at her action, and she wonders again if he's lying about reading her mind. Stepping into the tub on legs that feel as weak as a fawn is tricky, but she refuses his help, avoiding his arm when he reaches out to stabilize her.

A small victory for independence, she thinks. Then her foot slips on the oily bottom, and the only thing that saves her is the arm she tried to refuse. Edward catches her effortlessly and settles her before she can even gasp. She looks at him, expecting more derisive amusement, only to find his expression grim, his mouth set in a hard line as a hiss escapes him. The sound is angry, and she flinches.

"You will be careful, and you will not _ever_ pull away from me like that again, Isabella." The command in his tone is forceful enough it makes her blink. "You could have fallen. You could have been hurt."

Her heart still has the stutter that proves his observations correct, and she's embarrassed by her clumsiness. More than that, though, she feels a flash of irritation at him barking orders. She doesn't know what to do with the feeling. If he was anyone else, she'd laugh it off or tell him off, but she has no footing with him, no way to decipher the ground she walks on.

"I'm fine," she says weakly instead.

Something skates through those dark eyes, and something else flickers over his face. Some emotion she can't ascertain.

"Yes," he answers, frowning slightly. "And I find myself wanting that to be a constant situation, not just a momentary one." He seems confused by that, and his gaze is searching, as if he believes he can find answers if he stares at her hard enough.

Releasing the firm hold he has around her waist, Edward instead takes her arm and gestures to the water. "Sit carefully."

Feeling like a small chastised child and still spinning and lost, Bella does as he says. The water feels heavenly until she shifts her legs and a sharp sting flares between them. A small cry of pain and a wince can't be hidden before the feeling lessens. She closed her eyes at the initial burn, but now she opens them to find him kneeling down on one knee at the side of the tub. She doesn't miss the powerful flex of his thighs as he moves deeper into his leg bend, and for the first time she realizes he's put his pants back on. The material hugs his body like a second skin.

She's taken away from her visual feast by the feel of his cool hand sliding over her thigh to the intimate place she hurts, more of that same frown furrowing his brow as he cups her.

"You're hurting."

She bites her lip and nods before sliding back away from his touch. "I'm fine, though."

He cocks his head, watching her like a hawk, as if searching to see if she's telling the truth. "Such a fragile thing. I must remember to be gentler."

He seems to be talking to himself and not really to her. Bella closes her eyes and lets her head slump back, nudging herself backward to get further away from him, even if the space she gains measures only a few measly inches. She hears another low laugh, but when she opens her eyes, he's gone again, and she is alone. The bathroom lights feel too bright after the softer, comforting dark in the bedroom. She could pretend that all of this is a dream in there, but reality is undeniable when it's so brightly illuminated.

She stares at the open door and wonders if he's gone. Her ears strain, and she tries not to breathe as she listens.

She hopes he's left.

No, that's a lie.

Surrounded by warm water, she trembles as if she's cold.

She can't want him. He's poison and slow death and madness, and yet the thought that he might have left leaves her utterly bereft.

_He's a drug_, she thinks. _Like my own personal brand of heroin. The more I take, the more I want and need._

These thoughts, these wants, they're the slow slippery slope to a medicine cabinet full of antipsychotic drugs, and a bathtub just like this one—one filled with water gone cold and dyed red by the oozing of cuts in the skin of white wrists. She's seen where madness leads, and she wants no part of it.

Panic rises and takes a strangle hold, dragging her back to the year she turned eight. She came home expecting presents and birthday cake and instead found Renee, passed out in a puddle of vomit, barely breathing, an empty bottle of pills beside her. Bella wasn't able to pronounce the name on the bottle to the 911 dispatcher. The paramedics had to pry it from her clenched fingers, before passing her off to a neighbour who smelled like cigarettes and stale, cheap perfume.

_Fast forward..._ Grade eight. Another school, another city, another crappy apartment. The sounds of screaming and arguing as Renee battled drunkenly with the latest man of the month. They never lasted long. Bella buried her head under blankets and pillows and fell asleep to the angry noises, just as she had hundreds of times before. There would be a mess to clean up in the morning, just like most mornings. She'd clean before she went to school, and settle Renee in bed with the clean blankets she had stashed under her bed...

She'd woken to silence so thick it made her feel like she couldn't breathe under the weight, and she knew, even as she flew out of bed and raced through the house, _she knew_.

She found Renee in the tub, surrounded by red water. That time, she'd meant business...

Scrambling, Bella sits up in the water, leaning forward and hugging her knees. She reassures herself with the present, letting the bright shabbiness of her bathroom ground her.

No. That isn't her. Renee's illness isn't hers. It isn't_._

_It isn't._

. . . . . .

Edward stares at the contents of Isabella's refrigerator. Decades upon decades of observation and mind reading have made him an unwilling student in human food consumptions. Mortals think about food nearly as much as they think about sex.

He asks himself what Isabella needs at this moment and decides the late hour would mean her body does not need feeding. He hasn't heard her stomach growl. What she needs is rehydration, something sweet, yet nutritious, to restore her bodily fluids and electrolytes.

He finds a carton of orange juice and pours a large glass, taking a moment to survey the small kitchen, making note of the things she keeps in it and the food sources she stocks. The information will be useful in the future when the task of feeding her is solely his.

Returning to the bathroom, he finds Isabella, head resting on her knees, heart rate escalated. He frowns. Such a confusing creature she is. She is still frightened of him, though he has made an effort these last few hours to soothe her. He even engaged in the strange act of cuddling after sex. And rather enjoyed it, surprisingly, though he'd initiated the activity for her benefit.

Crouching by the side of the tub, he runs fingers through her hair, enjoying the silky texture. Her head jerks up, and her eyes fly open as she looks at him through haunted eyes. His frown deepens; he can feel it stretching his skin in unfamiliar ways as he struggles to understand the feeling her vulnerability engages. He doesn't like this look on her. Protective instincts flare, but he's lost. There is no enemy to battle, save whatever is in her head, and he can't access that.

"Drink," he tells her, aware of the gruffness in his voice yet unable to temper it. His emotions confuse him. _Emotions_ confuse him, period.

She takes the glass willingly and drinks, slowly at first, then faster as she becomes aware of her thirst. Edward feels the sensation of pride flare over him as he watches her consume the beverage. He's provided something she needs, and that pleases him immensely for some reason. He watches the flex of her throat muscles as she swallows, and unbidden, darker images come to him.

_Isabella, strong and agile, her sumptuous mouth clamped around the throat of a meal meant for a vampire, licking away crimson droplets from her ruby lips, red rimmed eyes watching him with the promise of carnality and satiation of the flesh..._

He jerks his thoughts away, wondering what fantasy this is. She is lovely, and he is enjoying her immensely, but that imagined scenario is nothing he could want. She is a temporary entertainment, one he will surely grow bored of..._eventually_. Besides, what possible draw could she have for him without the pleasure he receives from her warm skin and ambrosial blood?

He mentally shrugs away the thoughts, dismissively ignoring the odd way they linger compellingly at the edges of his mind.

Isabella finishes her drink, and he takes the glass, watching the faint flush of colour the sugar and liquid brings to her pallor. He took little blood from her. Her exhaustion is all about the emotional upheaval of their night and the physical taxing her body underwent during sex. He wasn't easy on her by any means. A small tinge of remorse touches him when he remembers the way she flinched when the water met her private flesh. Her gorgeous little cunt was no doubt abraded and bruised. He won't be able to take her again for several days if he isn't diligent with this aftercare.

He's surprised to find the need engenders no annoyance in him. On the contrary, it pleases him.

There are so many things to think about, to avoid and plan and be careful of. She shouldn't be worth it, and yet, the thought of leaving her, of never having her again, makes him want to roar and tear down walls. Worse is the thought of her uncomfortable or suffering.

Contemplating the future, listening to the outside noises surrounding the house—it won't be long before Chief Swan returns to check on his beloved daughter again—Edward separates his mind and tends to the exquisite creature before him with most of his attention. She attempts to stand, and it's nothing to prevent it. He captures the hands that try to take the washing cloth away from him, and in one grip holds them clasped against her stomach.

"Be still, Isabella," he commands, pleased when she blinks and settles. He cannot help but smile as he washes her slowly, gently, enjoying the feel of her skin, wet and slippery with soap and oil. He washes her small delicate feet and then her legs, careful of the bruises he's put on her hips. He traces them, feeling pride at the marks on her skin which so clearly stake his claim with nothing more than superficial damage to her frail flesh.

His body begins to ache anew for more contact with her.

Standing, he reaches for a towel and lifts her from the tub, setting her on her feet in front of him. The action takes only a split second, and he laughs at her gasp of surprise and the small yelp of shock she emits when the cool of his chest meets the hot, wet skin of her back.

"Mmm, you are deliciously warm, Isabella." Edward dries her carefully, easing the shock with the soft rasp of friction from the towel. A soft kiss to her neck and she subsides against him, her trip-hammer heartbeat vibrating all the way through her spine. He moves the damp towel between her legs, stroking over her with the lightest touch he is capable of. Again, he captures her hands when she would stop him, holding them prisoner behind her back as he molds the fabric to her sex, rocking his cloth-covered palm against her. She shivers with pleasure, telling him without words he's the farthest thing from hurting her.

Isabella whimpers slightly as he moves upwards with the towel, tending to her stomach and arms, her neck and shoulders, and the sharper curves of her collarbones. The rasp of the soft fabric on her breasts makes her breathing change to little pants. He glides it back and forth over rapidly tightening nipples. Soft shell pink turns dark cherry red, tight little points begging to be caressed and sucked.

Releasing her hands now that she's distracted, Edward wraps his fingers around her throat, tight enough she feels the pressure, not tight enough to restrict her breathing or cause pain. It's just enough to demonstrate he is in control—now, always.

He tips her head right and kisses her ear lobe, touching his tongue to the satiny flesh beneath.

"So sweet. You taste like heaven here, all pure and innocent." He allows the towel to fall out of his grasp and trails the tips of his fingers over her right breast. The soft skin on her nipple pebbles even more, and Isabella moans softly for him.

"Does that feel good, my beauty?" he questions in a whisper to her ear. "My hands on you, my fingers all over this lovely breast, this pretty little nipple?" A thumb and forefinger squeeze lightly over the tip, coaxing another moan. She's nearly limp against him, too tired to fully acquiesce, too deliciously stubborn to fully submit. The warm humidity of the steamy room keeps her from becoming chilled, yet goosebumps dot her skin with a delicious new texture to explore.

"Watch, Isabella; watch me touch you," he orders, turning her to face the rectangular full-length mirror that hangs on the door, stroking more firmly over the taut peak that so eagerly responds to him. Her reflection is sublime. The condensation dripping down the mirror's surface seems to decorate her skin with glistening crystals.

A low whimper displays her desire almost as much as her scent which spikes with the visual her reflection provides. She likes the sight of his hands on her nearly as much as he does.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. "See how your body responds, little lamb? See how perfect you are under my touch? It's as if you were made for me."

Edward lets his hand slip lower, leaving her luscious nipple and sliding down her damp skin to the place he knows is aching once more for him. She's far too tender for his cock, but not for his hand.

"Watch," he repeats as he places pressure against her thighs, forcing her to widen her stance, opening her to his gaze and his touch. She makes a small sound of distress when he cups her, and he chuckles lightly. "Ah, so tender. Does it hurt, my beauty? Shall I make it all better?"

Isabella tries to shake her head, tries to deny him, even as her hips flex into the touch that just barely skims back and forth over her exposed sex.

Her eyes close, and Edward orders her to watch again, opening her gently, parting the delicate folds of flesh to reveal the swollen crown of her clitoris. It's beaded tightly against her body, and he uses one finger to tease the tip, making Isabella gasp sweetly.

"Mmm, yes. Right here. Such a pretty clit you have, Isabella. So silky soft and standing at attention for me. Does it throb, little beauty? Do you ache?" he asks, gliding his finger up then down. "Right here?"

She makes a humming sound in the back of her throat, incoherent in pleasure, though he doubts she would have answered him regardless. He can feel her repression in the hard muscles of her tense form and the blush she cannot hide at his words. An innocent, such an innocent…

He circles the bead of her, adding pressure at the sides with each sweep in that direction. The bright lighting hides nothing, but he finds her flawless. He watches her in the mirror and finds her captivated, her eyes wide and the corner of her bottom lip tucked tightly beneath her teeth as she witnesses his fingers gliding so effortlessly over her.

"Look at how exquisite you are here, Isabella. So ripe for me, all flushed and swollen and glistening. Such pretty flesh just begging for me to touch it and fill the emptiness inside of you until you scream for mercy." She tries to turn her head to hide her face in his neck, shocked by the words he uses. He loosens his grip slightly—not enough that she can move, but enough his grip will not harm her in her efforts. Her thigh muscles quiver and her calves clench, toes curling against the bare linoleum of her floor.

"Look," he commands more firmly. "Watch my hand touch you, Isabella. You're too sore for my cock, but you can still take pleasure at my hand." He cups her possessively, pressing the heel of his palm where his fingers were, stroking the entrance to her body lightly. Her hips jerk, pressing her closer, as though to guide his touch inside. Until her flesh rebels and she whimpers, trying to jerk away from him. Chuckling lightly, he holds her immobile, continuing to just caress over her there, dipping the tip of one, then two, fingers inside, knowing the little bites of pain she feels will sharpen the pleasure if she allows it.

Using only one finger, he enters her further. She makes a strangled sound, and he can feel her conflicting desires in the tenseness of her muscles, internal and external. She doesn't know whether to push forward or pull back.

Edward uses his hold on her neck to turn her face towards him, taking her mouth with a groan. "You feel so good, my sweet lamb. So warm and soaked and tight for me," he murmurs against her soft, gasping mouth, flicking his tongue over hers as he flicks his thumb over her clitoris. He strums her quickly while his other finger presses deep to move in quick little pulses rather than friction inducing strokes. She cries out, her delicious breath bathing his mouth. One of her hands clenches his arm, her body twisting decisively now against his touch, seeking more. The other grabs the side of the sink, wet fingers squeaking over the vanity's surface.

Her breathing quickens as Edward moves his hand faster, still keeping the weight of his touch as light as the weight of feathers. Isabella strains against his hand, panting and mewling, utterly caught at his mercy.

"Beautiful," he murmurs with a low growl of approval at the growing slickness over his fingers. Her head falls back against his shoulder as he works her, lost in the drive for her release, unable to keep her attention on the mirror. Edward uses his grip on her throat to force her gaze back on her reflection. Her skin glows with a pink flush, darker over the tops of her breasts, like rose petals skimming the surface of a pool of fresh cream. His hand wrapped around her throat is decadent, flaring his possessiveness to new heights.

"Are you going to come for me, little one?" he asks unnecessarily. She's on the edge, spilling heat and honey, her skin dewed with water beads rich with the scents of salt-sweat and lavender oil.

"Oh, Edward, please, please." She's shaking, weakened muscle tissue straining with the coiling tension that clamps her down around his fingers like a plush-lined vise. Only his bracing strength against her back and his grip on her throat keeps her upright.

"Watch, Isabella," he all but growls. "See how beautiful you are when you come for me. See what I see."

He nuzzles her humid cheek, licking the crease of her neck and shoulder as he adds the smallest amount of pressure and speed to his touch. She's so close, it's only a mere second to send her over, her lovely eyes falling shut at the last minute as her release overwhelms her.

Turning her face back to him, he nicks her bottom lip, sucking the tiny burst of her blood into his mouth—a small punishment for disobeying his orders. The taste is like a jolt of adrenaline careening through his dead system, like an orgasm, only far more satisfying. He sucks lightly as she moans with the last pulses of her climax, resisting the urge to take more before using his tongue to seal the tiny wound closed with a last lingering lick.

"Yes, Isabella, such a good girl," he croons, rocking her through her release as she shudders and convulses against him. Her body begins to relax, and Edward slows his touch, though he does not end it.

"More?" he asks teasingly as she trembles and whimpers, little shocks of pleasure still stabbing her as he frigs her tender clitoris with soft, slow strokes.

Isabella trembles, undecided, and Edward walks a very fine line. Her arousal ignites his, but her weakness calls to the baser side of his instincts. He hasn't been feeding properly. Animal blood is too weak to sustain him, especially with this kind of temptation. The rich taste of that tiny droplet of crimson from her mouth is still flavouring his.

She's so erotic and beautiful in her pleasure, so sensual in her submission to his touch. It occurs to him that somehow—_unbelievably, insanely_—she trusts him in this. The knowledge softens the edges of his thirst.

Has anyone, living or dead, ever trusted him with such blind faith as this splendid creature does now in this moment?

Edward cannot answer. Though his mind flickers over thousands of memories, both fresh and old, he finds nothing save the emptiness he's always known.

Disengaging his touch, Edward lifts her trembling form up and into his arms, cradling her close. His touch is as tender as his gaze on her.

He wants—_no needs_—to reward her for her trust.

Back in the bedroom, he leaves the lights off because he knows she finds comfort in the embrace of darkness.

He lays her upon the bed and stares down at her. Her alabaster skin glows against the darker fabric of her bedding; her hair spreads out around her like a flowing veil.

She doesn't attempt to deny him, though she watches his gaze warily, which no doubt has grown as heavy as his cock.

Edward covers her with his body, drags his fingers over her brow and across her eyelids, pressing them shut gently.

"Hush, Isabella," he tells her when she makes a small, lost sound in the back of her throat. "Close your eyes. No pain, only pleasure. Trust me, little lamb. Let me take care of you." Placing a kiss on her throat where he longs to bite, he hovers, dragging in her scent, before finally moving down her body to place his mouth between her cream skinned thighs. He drinks her here instead, sating himself on the heady taste of her femininity, on her soft cries of ecstasy as she comes, quivering against his tongue and lips, knowing his mouth and the healing properties inherent in his vampire makeup will melt away the last of her soreness.

Later, as the dawn begins to tease the horizon with reflections of fast approaching light, Edward covers her exhausted, sleeping form with a light sheet. Her father made his final round of the night in his patrol car an hour ago, nearly an auditory witness to Isabella's very loud final cry of climax. A part of Edward might have found the moment amusing, given the fact the Chief's purpose was to protect Isabella from Mike Newton, a man who no longer walked among the living. Especially in light of the fact that Edward—a far more dangerous being—was taking decadent liberties with his daughter, right under the Chief's less-than-watchful eye. Instead, Edward coaxed lingering whimpers from her in a possessive moment of fierceness at the interruption of his focus, knowing that Chief Swan's human ears couldn't detect those softer sounds, yet deriving a twisted satisfaction from it nevertheless.

_Mine, mine, mine… _

The little accompanying growl sent vibrations through his Isabella that spurred another soft flutter of climax over her before he relented and let her succumb to sleep.

It was a near thing, and decades of learned self control that kept Edward in that bed with her rather than outside tearing the throat out of a man with proprietary thoughts towards what now belonged solely to Edward. The feral nature alive and well within him wanted to eradicate any other male from her life, regardless of the nature of the relationship between them.

Now, he contemplates those thoughts with more attention. His plans for his house are finally coming together. It won't be long now before it will be a suitable place for Isabella. He understands that for a human, the health of their psyche depends on a social network of familial and friend associations. Edward is willing, for now, to settle here for a short time and allow for her adjustment to the new life he is planning for her, but his patience is not finite. It would be so much easier to eradicate all complications and connections, simply vanish with her, but he must tread carefully for many reasons, not the least of which is Isabella's mental health.

He watches her for a moment longer, drawing peace and resolve from her sleeping innocence. Such an incomparable beauty she is, but keeping her is a complicated, dangerous endeavour indeed.

The idea of that danger grows in his mind as awareness teases the edges of his vampiric senses. There is another of his kind close by.

Edward's lip curls, a snarl twisting his handsome face into something dangerous. Despite this, his touch of farewell on Isabella's cheek is infinitely gentle, an unspoken promise to return gliding from his fingers, branding itself unseen on her skin as he trails his touch down her neck.

He leaves her house reluctantly, swift and invisible on silent feet, ready to confront yet another obstacle. With his features hard and predatorily frightening, Edward almost pities the vampire who thinks their past relationship will protect them from their blunder of daring to get too close to what is his.

Yes, keeping Isabella is a complicated, dangerous endeavour, but Edward is a dangerous being more than equipped for the task.

Woe any wretched soul, living or dead, who dares to get between him and what is his.

. . . . . .

* * *

A/N Poor befuddled Bella. She really is so confuzzled. But can you blame her? Multiple earth-shattering orgasms will do that to a girl's mind, and Preyward isn't giving her much time to breathe and get her oxygen levels back up. But hey, he _cuddled_, and he _liked_ it. He's gotta get some points for that one, surely. *snort*

Okay, in all seriousness, just a few things to address. Obviously the line _"He's like a drug, my own personal brand of heroin_" is a play on the infamous Twilight line. I don't own it, I just tweaked it.

And yes, I (Preyward) used the c,u,n,t word. I know some of you won't like that, some of you won't care, and others will think it's hot. I'm personally ambivalent unless used in a nasty, derogatory form, but I was careful to make sure Edward doesn't use it that way. Given his background and age, it's a word I think he'd be more likely to use than pussy or whatever. He isn't modern, obviously. I tried to find an alternative, but really, I can't see him thinking honeypot or quim or cunny, and I couldn't find anything else! And did you know I could not find a single word for clit other than bud or nub? Really, are there no other words? And yes, my google search history is...interesting. Lol. Almost as interesting as these ranting A/N's...Someone remind me to erase this later, will you? ;-)

Thanks for reading, lovelies.

Aleea


	12. Joshje

A/N **Important Reminders** (because I have been total fail at timely updates so you may have forgotten details...) – A few chapters back, while Edward was poking around in Bella's house and business while she slept, he found her bills, hacked into her computer, and deposited money in her bank account without her knowledge. Also, I'm not sticking to canon timelines, so dates, ages, and any other information relating to time, will not match the Twilight series.

Last chapter, Edward left an exhausted, sleeping Bella just after dawn to meet a mystery visitor he was less than happy about.

. . . . . .

Thanks as always to the amazing team Prey—my beta Saritadreaming and my pre-readers Popola, Rubylou, and Whynotjustjumpintothevolcano. Much love to all four of you. This story is so much better with your guidance and support.

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

Chapter 12

Joshje

. . . . . .

_Destined by a fate_

_so cruel..._

. . . . . .

Gray light spilling on the floor beneath her windows, the sound of rain on the glass—Bella listens to the world around her and knows she is alone. Not that she needs sound. She can feel it in her body. It's in the empty ache that spans her chest and midriff, and the hollowness that encompasses her entire body. It's so much worse now than it ever was before. Before _him_, she never knew the difference, never felt the things he made her feel.

She rises from her bed cautiously, the ache in her muscles deep and almost pleasant. She expects the pain to be centered between her legs. Instead, she's surprised to find there is no pain at all. The soreness from last night is completely gone. She feels tender and sensitive, but there's no pain.

She turns on the light in her small bathroom and feels heat flare over her face at the memories that spin through her thoughts. Her mirrors are streaked with dried condensation, and she hears his voice again in her mind, all velvet sin and heat, telling her to '_watch_.' A soft touch to her mouth reveals no wounds; although she vividly remembers the stinging bite he placed there. Nothing is left as evidence with the exception of the palest pink mark against her skin, barely noticeable to the naked eye.

Shivering, despite being the farthest thing from cold, she turns on the shower and steps under the spray before it has a chance to warm. The shock of cold only continues to remind her of last night. Especially of the way his skin felt against hers, unnaturally cool and far too resilient. She should have been repulsed, but even now all she feels is the desire to be closer, to feel him everywhere, all over her, inside of her...

Tipping her face to the spray, she lets the cool water bathe her skin, washing away the scent of lavender oil and sex. All the decadence of him and the things he made her feel swirls down the drain, leaving only the memory. The empty ache grows, clawing at her insides, pushing them down to make more room till she wonders how her heart keeps beating under the pressure of all that nothingness. It hurts to breathe. Her skin craves his touch, his kiss, and the cool ice of his mouth against her hot flesh.

She dips her fingers between her legs, cupping her need and heat to relieve the burning want. Water coats her fingers making them cool, but it isn't enough. Not nearly enough. Her thumb against her clit makes her gasp, sensitive nerves bunching and contracting until it throbs with its own heartbeat. Her fingers slip inside, one then another, while inner muscles clench in shock and pleasure at the delicious invasion.

It isn't enough...

Her nipples draw in tight as she breathes in with a gasp. His name is on the tip of her tongue, and she can taste him. Last night and the time before, he overwhelmed her, gave her no chance to think or act or reciprocate. She realizes now she wants so badly to reciprocate. To know what it would feel like to lick his skin and taste that flesh just above the sharp curve of his Adam's apple. To rake her teeth down his sternum then move lower, _lower..._

She wants to put her hands on his thighs and feel the flex of those iron muscles as her mouth breathes over his erection. She wants to watch those strange eyes turn hungry and as black as midnight. She wants to get on her knees for him, and she wants to take him in her mouth. Hear him hiss her name and fist her hair. Hold her tight and still while he owns her, takes from her, presses so deep she can't breathe unless he lets her...

_Oh, God, oh, God..._

She pants, water spilling into her open mouth the way she wants him spilling into her...

_Yes, yes, yes..._

Pressing her fingers deep she begins to come in deep pulses that seem to never end.

_So good. God._

His name passes her lips—a whimper of sound that ripples with longing rather than satiation. She wants him, so badly.

"_Edward."_

Her knees shake, her legs feeling like rubber as she turns off the water and leans back against the tub surround. It takes willpower and effort she barely feels she has to step out and dry off—to go through the rituals of hygiene and walk out of the bathroom to dress.

Hot, stuffy air greets her as she steps into the living room. Weak gray light gives the room a drab appearance, highlighting the shabbiness of her furniture and the worn paint on the walls. The rain that continues to patter against her windows isn't offering any break to the late summer heat wave. She feels heavy and disconnected. The scrape of the carpet on her bare feet shouldn't be uncomfortable, but it is. Somewhere in the night her skin thinned out, her nerve endings now too close the surface.

In the kitchen she makes an effort to eat, though she has no appetite for the food she prepares. It's all tasteless and bland, and there is no room in her stomach beneath the crushing weight of emptiness her self-induced orgasm only temporarily sated. If anything it made it worse.

She stares at the items scattered across her kitchen table, striving for focus. Pieces of her life lie here, represented in scraps of inconsequential papers and objects that should have more meaning than they do. Her focus zeros in on the bills she has yet to pay. Was it only yesterday that she sat in this kitchen and prepared to juggle them? It felt like a lifetime ago, one that wasn't hers. So much has changed that she can't absorb it all. She doesn't even know how to start.

Forcing herself to move, she turns on her laptop and opens the first bill her fingers touch after logging on to her bank website. She scans the summary, automatically tallying numbers and subtracting them from the amount she remembers is in her chequing account. She thinks about work and remembers she needs to call in. If she doesn't go back soon, she won't have enough money to pay her half of the mortgage this month...

The thoughts come to an abrupt halt as she stares at the balance on the computer screen. Too many zeros greet her eyes, and it takes her a minute to absorb the sum. Her gaze skips to the top of the screen and back down. Her name and her account number are all in place. She logs out anyway, logging back in after she clears her browser history, deleting her cache and cookies. The repetitive process of signing back in and retyping her password only brings the same result.

According to this, she has thousands of dollars in her account; more than enough to pay all her bills and the entire balance of her nearly maxed out credit card with plenty left over.

Blinking, she tries again. _Logout—clear—login._

Nothing changes.

Bella reaches for the phone, her mind skipping through likely scenarios. A computer glitch or a bank error could be at fault. Charlie? Jake? Although neither of them seems likely. Not for this kind of money.

She's greeted by an automated recording and huffs as she punches in the proper numbers to navigate the system, being shuffled from one set of options to another by a cold, computerized voice. Her stomach knots as the process finally ends with the connection to a real person. It knots harder at what she learns.

No computer glitch. No bank error. Not Charlie or Jake.

"Ms. Swan, the money was deposited in your account via an internet direct deposit from an overseas bank."

She stares at the screen with the numbers she can't refute, and swallows back the bile that burns her throat when her stomach clenches sickly. "Can you tell me who it's from?"

"I'm afraid this account is secure, ma'am. In these types of deposits, the depositor's personal information is protected and encrypted. Their identity is not made available to us."

"That doesn't make any sense. How can some random person just put money in my account with no authorization from me?"

"When you opened this account, Ms. Swan, you signed forms that give permission for the bank to accept automatic deposits from various sources, including direct deposits from other banks."

"I what? Look. Never mind—it doesn't matter. But I don't want this money. Send it back."

"I'm sorry...you want me to...send it back?"

"Yes. Exactly. Just hit whatever button you need to so the money goes back wherever it came from."

"Ms. Swan," the man—who claims his name is Manuel—speaks slowly, clearly confused by her demand. "It really doesn't work that way..."

"What do you mean 'it doesn't work that way? You just got done telling me that it does. That's how the money got in my account. I want you to do the same thing, only in reverse. Is that so difficult?"

Bella can hear the clicking of a keyboard as the disembodied voice asks her for a minute so he can check the status of the depositors account. While she waits, her head whirls. There is only one person—or non-person—who could be responsible for this. A hot rush of frustration and fury hits her like a wave as she bites the corners of her thumb until she tastes blood. The term '_bought and paid for'_ races through her mind, mocking her.

"_You belong to me now, Isabella."_

"_I'm not a possession or a...toy or pet."_

"_You are whatever I say you are."_

"I'm sorry, Ms. Swan. I cannot reverse the deposit. The account is set up in such a way that only the account holder can deposit funds. As I said, this is a _very_ secure account." The way he says 'very' implies he's impressed by just how secure it is. A lengthy pause stretches between them as he waits for further questions before he finally interjects. "I can redirect you to your personal branch manager if you'd like. I see you're in...Forks, Washington?"

"Will they be able to send the money back?"

"No, I'm afraid not." His tone states quite clearly that he thinks she's crazy, and he's only humouring her at this point. "It is possible though, that you could transfer the money into a different account."

Bella racks her brain for alternatives. A charity or person in need who she could dump this money on because there is no way in hell she's keeping it. She comes up blank. She can't think of charities; that would take research and time. As far as a person, well, she can think of lots of those, but that will simply open up questions she could never answer. Like why she's handing out money she shouldn't have in the first place, not to mention where she got it from.

"Just...never mind. I can speak to my branch manager in person." She mutters a brief thanks and disconnects before Manuel can launch into his spiel about whether she's satisfied with the outcome of her call. She isn't even remotely satisfied.

Cursing, she tosses the phone on the table and stares again at the numbers in front of her on her laptop screen. Money has always been an issue. Money is the reason she's still in Forks, why she works a dead-end job and lives in a house that needs more repairs and renovations than she can afford to do. Growing up, there was never enough. Renee couldn't manage her money, no matter how much she had—or didn't have as the case more often was. Until Bella learned to juggle their finances, they lived in houses and apartments with the threat of eviction constantly taped to doors and windows that were dark because the electricity had been shut off.

Even when Bella took over all their finances at the tender of age of ten, Renee never made it easy. Renee was impulsive and childish even when she was healthy and taking her medications regularly. Rent money was burned up in partying, utilities went unpaid so she could buy Bella and herself matching fur coats, and groceries went the way of the wind for the sake of a trip to...wherever a whim might take her.

Even after Bella left Renee's, nothing much changed. Living with Charlie's lousy pay as Police Chief in a small town meant there wasn't a lot of extra money in their tight budget. Charlie was steadfast and stable. He rarely blew money on frivolous things, but that didn't mean there was anything left over for extras, including college money. Bella gave up the idea of pursuing more education before she even graduated high school. It's how she got stuck here in Forks, working a dead end job, lying to herself that her life wasn't over before it ever really began.

None of that changes the fact that this money isn't hers. It's _blood money_, in every sense of the term.

Standing so fast she nearly tips her chair over, she feels the fog that's lain over her all week finally begin to dissipate. The empty ache inside of her sharpens, but she ignores it as she makes her way to the bedroom, tearing open her closet and tossing clothes to her bed. She drags a suitcase out of the bottom, dusty from never being used, and starts shoving clothes inside. There is no order in her actions, but in her mind her thoughts are clear and concise.

Pack.

Call Jake and borrow the truck.

Stop at the ATM and withdraw the meagre amount of cash from her savings. Don't touch a penny of _his_ money...

Run.

Run far. Run fast.

Just...

_Run._

. . . . . .

The rain has stopped work on the roof. A large blue tarp flutters where the edges aren't fully secured, creating an obscene amount of noise reminiscent of a flock of trapped birds flapping their wings. Inside the house an electrician finishes wiring the new outlets. A carpenter finishes work on the refinishing and repairs of the main staircase. Edward walks through the rooms, ignoring the nervous glances of the men installing the granite countertop on the new island in the new kitchen as he stops to survey their work.

He senses her and hears her thoughts long before she makes her physical presence known.

Tanya. Once a friend and a lover—now nothing but a distraction and nuisance he hardly needs or wants. She enters the house from the recently installed French doors that lead out to a newly landscaped yard, her thoughts marvelling at how much can be accomplished with money and fear in such a short amount of time.

Edward's contractor, Tyler Crowley, has indeed outdone himself, both in timing and quality, with no outward threats needed. Edward merely greased the man's palm generously and allowed his presence to do what it always does; engender nervousness and uncertainty, clearly signally danger while Edward smiled and outwardly projected nothing more than confidence and wealth. The mask of humanity is thin. Aside from Isabella, Edward has never met a human who didn't grow uneasy in his presence after only a few minutes. It's helped that financial trouble and an ailing wife make his contractor more biddable than most. He never questions Edward, and in return, Edward doesn't hesitate to compensate him in ways that relieve some of his troubles. Oddly enough, Edward rather likes the man.

Turning to the workers who have the same sense of self-preservation as his contractor, Edward quietly informs them their day is done. They barely pause to gather their tools before hurrying out of the house, spreading the word to the other men that their jobs should be set aside to be finished tomorrow.

Tanya watches and listens to them all scatter like mice set free from a trap, her expression and thoughts amused. She cocks her head and looks at him. Edward marvels that he once thought her beautiful. She _is _attractive, but nothing compared to the beauty of his Isabella.

"Edward, Edward. Still terrifying the masses I see," she intones dryly.

He inclines his head back at her in greeting and runs his hands over the shiny new surface beside him, noting quality while picking through her brain. Tanya has always been easy to read; it seems time has done nothing to change that. In less than a minute he confirms that Alice, his meddling psychic sister, is behind this second an unwanted visitor, exactly as he suspected.

Ignoring her previous comment, he pins Tanya with a stare and smiles a little as she grows nervous, revealing even more. It seems his sister's gift is failing her, keeping her in the dark and frustrating her controlling little brain. He has a moment to wonder why Alice is having difficulties seeing his future before Tanya settles her nerves and her resolve, shaking her head at him as she approaches.

"Really, Edward. Silence? I know it's been a while, but surely I deserve a warmer greeting than this." She reaches out a hand as though to touch him. He catches it before she can make contact, his grip tight and laced with warning.

"You'll forgive me if I'm less than happy to see you here, Tanya. Perhaps if you weren't here to play lackey for Alice, meddling in my affairs and interfering in my life, I may have found it in me to be more...hospitable."

Tanya's thoughts bristle, though she keeps her expression calm, attempting to redirect her mind to other things and failing miserably. She's never had the strength of will or dedication to effort it takes to thwart his gift.

Edward smirks, shaking his head. "You are an open book, Tanya. You always have been. Alice must not have foreseen you getting so close to me. I suspect in fact, that you were given express orders to avoid me, and yet here you are."

He sees confirmation in her mind, though she only laughs. "As much as you'd like to think I'm here only under Alice's direction, I do have other reasons, Edward." She gestures to the fridge, and in her mind he sees images of Styrofoam containers full of bags of donor blood.

"A gift from Carlisle," she confirms. "You'll probably want to find a new place to store it, however. One of these little busy bees you have working so industriously around here could get nosy."

A low growl is her only answer, and she has the intelligence to once again look nervous. She attempts to mask it with a beleaguered sigh and eye roll.

"Really, Edward. This entire situation is ridiculous. If you're going to stay, and it appears you are," she continues, gesturing to their surroundings, "then I would think Carlisle's thoughtfulness would be appreciated. You certainly cannot run around regularly eating townsfolk in a place this small. Or are you self-destructing to the point now where the attention of our leaders in Volterra is welcome?"

"Don't be asinine or condescending, Tanya. It doesn't suit you, nor does it engender any affection from me. I'm still trying to decide if our past has enough weight to merit not tearing your head off. It would be wise of you to tread carefully with your mocking."

Tanya's eyes turn sad, an expression he is all too familiar with. Their time together decades ago was brief, but it left her tender emotions damaged in a way he's not proud of. Apparently some of that sting still lingers. His suspicions are confirmed by her hurt thoughts and the words she speaks.

"You are so cold, Edward."

He doesn't answer, but he does release her hand. Sighing, she moves away, making a show of studying the kitchen. He thinks back on the past as he watches her, still measuring her thoughts which currently match the path of his, though not the feeling. Her reminisces are clearly more romantic than his.

After he lost control and killed the young girl in 1903, Edward wandered for almost five years. Lost and a slave to his lust to kill and drink dry every foul human mind he could find, he was hardly a fit companion for anyone. He encountered Tanya merely by circumstance. She was a vision from his past, and he wanted nothing to do with her. However, the pull of her feminine sexuality was something he found too enticing to resist. Killing and feeding had unlocked dormant physical desires he once thought himself immune to.

She stayed with him for a while, though she had no desire to share his lifestyle. She believed she could save him, and for a short time, he allowed her to believe it was working. He was lonely. She was beautiful and eager to share her body. They mated like animals but he tired of her quickly. They parted ways just before the New Year of 1918.

Her thoughts dip into one of the many sexual encounters they shared together, and he speaks to disrupt the images her mind conjures. He feels nothing at the erotic memories she calls forth, only a longing to send her away so he can get back to Isabella. It's her flesh and body he craves, the sound of her voice and the feel of her touch. Tanya could never compare; even then, before he had any basis for comparison, his encounters with her lacked...everything.

Fucking for the sake of fucking became boring fast—especially when it lacked any mystery.

"So, Carlisle is still running his blood donation clinics I assume?"

She turns to him, mental recreations of their intimacies slowly fading out as she focuses on his question reluctantly.

"Of course," she says in such a way it points out the absurdity of him needing to ask. "Even Aro has a slice of that pie. Carlisle is more successful than ever at herding the masses to his clinics like lambs to the slaughter."

Edward makes a rude sound of derision. "An unfitting analogy given Carlisle has never slaughtered a human in his entire existence."

Tanya shrugs a silk clad shoulder, smirking at his correction. she's dressed as if she stepped off a runway showcasing the latest designer fashions. She looks ridiculously out of place, and she rubs at a smudge of fresh paint on her sleeve while she answers. "Too true. Even feeding himself, his coven, and meeting Aro's demands, he still manages to save more human lives with his collections than any other blood donor clinic in the country." Her expression adopts a small moue of distaste. Tanya enjoys her human bed-mates; however, beyond sex and food, she sees them as useless creatures. Carlisle's drive to save them and help them maintain healthy, long lives isn't shared by her—or his siblings for that matter.

Edward's ire prickles at yet another reminder of Carlisle's gift of compassion and his legendary self control. _Of course he's saving lives_, he thinks bitterly to himself_. He has much to atone for considering the devil he spawned in me has no such compunctions_.

"Does he think I'm too stupid to know that I can't cull my meals from the territory I'm occupying?" The question is rhetorical and laced with nearly two centuries of bitterness.

Tanya rushes to ease him. "Of course not, Edward. Carlisle only wants to make things...easier on you."

In her mind, Edward sees flashes of the past few weeks. A multitude of images, complete with Alice's hysteria and demands as her visions faltered, and Carlisle's cool aplomb and unruffled demeanour as he insisted Edward's choices were his own to make.

_And still he sends blood to feed me and keep me in line._

"Alice cannot see your little human very well." Tanya interrupts the play of her emotional memories with dry fact. She runs the tip of one opaque fingernail over the countertop, enjoying her role as the purveyor of such information as Edward's attention snaps more clearly upon her.

"Hence the pictures you stole from the wall of the apartment you broke into."

Tanya smiles, the curves of her lush mouth looking cruel. "I was assuaging my own curiosity as to what you were up to, but yes, I sent the pictures to Alice. I believe she was hoping to get a better psychic grasp on your little obsession."

"And did it work?"

Tanya attempts to hide the answer and fails again. Glimpses of Alice throwing colossal fits during a recent phone call slip through the cracks of the weak thoughts Tanya tries to block him with.

Edward smiles. "Hm. I see it did not. Interesting."

"Alice never sees humans well," Tanya offers grudgingly. "But she's nearly giving herself seizures trying to see this one. It would seem your future is all over the place as well?" She phrases it like a question, but Edward ignores the blatant dig for information on his plans.

"Alice foolishly believes I will return to the family. She is nothing if not tenacious," he says instead. "She is wasting her time and yours as well. Meddling in human affairs and stealing evidence from a crime scene? Really, Tanya, I would think such juvenile Nancy Drew efforts beneath you."

Tanya waves her hand in dismissal. "I merely followed the trail of breadcrumbs left by you and the psychotic male you made a little meal of, Edward. It wasn't as if it was difficult. You're being less than careful. Did you really think it wise to kill someone so personally linked to the girl?"

He ignores her censure and the sarcastic question. "I want the pictures."

"You'll have to take that up with Alice." She smiles, flashing her teeth in subtle challenge, enjoying the thrill of fear she gets from the spark of anger igniting in his eyes. Their past sexual encounters were always...aggressive. His anger now reminds her of that time.

Edward growls low in his throat, warning her without words. She sighs and maintains her distance. His anger may hold a sexual thrill for her, but she's no fool.

"You took the pictures. You will return them to me."

"And deprive you of the opportunity for a family reunion...?"

"The lifestyle Alice and the others live and all its pathetic intonations, does not interest me," he tells her, biting the words off harshly.

"Careful, Edward. I too live that lifestyle. Your words and judgement wound me." Her expression takes on one of hurt, though he doubts it's real. She thinks back on the years when Edward was a part of that life willingly, and he has to fight the urge to growl again.

Happiness was a fallacy he perpetuated for the sake of those he loved. The wasted years of deceit sicken him now. As much as he loved his family, that life had been emptier than any of them knew. The proof of that lies in the fact they continue to attempt to force him back.

Tanya's thoughts linger briefly on a lament that she herself was not enough to make that lifestyle more appealing to him. Even before their time together, her interest in having more than friendship with him wasn't a secret. Now she wonders what he sees in this plain human girl that is keeping him here in this equally plain and dreary town. Her thoughts navigate to Rosalie, yet another beautiful vampire who likewise would have made a suitable mate, yet hadn't tempted him in any romantic way.

Edward doesn't repress his growl this time, and Tanya's gaze snaps up to him from where she was feigning interest in the new faucet of the sink.

Rose. Beautiful broken Rose. Edward feels the pull of her even now after all these years. Not the pull of a lover and mate as Carlisle had meant her to be when he changed her and brought her home, but the pull of a beloved, fragile sister.

"Rose is doing well. Not that you asked." The note of censure in Tanya's voice stabs his conscience, though it shouldn't. Rose is the one family member worthy of his grudging intermittent contacts, brief as they are. The occasional letter, or card. A gift on her birthday—not one has he forgotten.

Changed after a brutal gang rape and beating had left her heart barely beating, Rose never fully recovered her mind. Not even vampirism could heal her fully after such a tragedy. Carlisle sensed Edward's deep loneliness and thought to bring him a mate, someone to share the eternal never-ending days and nights with. Carlisle rarely acted impulsively, but even he was prone to rashness from time to time. Rosalie is proof.

Instead of a companion, he brought a broken, beautiful doll into their world. One as fragile as a child and as strong as a demon.

Despite the lack of a love connection, Edward cared for her, nurturing, guarding and feeding her. Until the day she found her mate, half dead from the mauling of a grizzly bear, and brought him home. Edward still remembers that day as vividly as if it was yesterday.

Rose laid the man named Emmett at Carlisle's feet, soaked in blood and gore, as she stood at her full height, beautiful and glorious in her fury. "You did this to me," she whispered fiercely to Carlisle. "You made me this when you had to know that I wanted only death and peace. Give him to me so I am not alone in this hell."

It was one of her most lucid moments, and Carlisle's agreement granted Edward the freedom from being caretaker, but never the freedom from the bond his heart had formed.

"Emmett takes very good care of her. They are a perfect match. He handles her temper tantrums quite easily. Better by far than you, who always just gave in to her whims."

Edward shrugs, feigning disinterest. Emmett was far more adept at handling Rose than him. It's good to know that it continues to be a good match, not that he would admit it.

Tanya studies him, her thoughts searching for jealousy or some other emotion that might betray him in his expression. She continues to be confused by his attraction to the human girl.

"Why her?" she finally asks blatantly, tired of the subterfuge she's never been good at.

Edward pretends ignorance. "Why not her?"

Bristling visibly, Tanya scrapes a nail down his new cupboard, gouging the surface in a fit of childish temper.

"She's _human_. I suppose she's pretty in a bland human way, but rather lacking in curves." Her cattiness is further illustrated as she runs her hands over the generous curve of her breast and hip, winking lasciviously at him. When he merely arcs a brow at her with a disinterested stare, she drops her hands with a huff. "Oh, really, Edward. Aren't you too old to play such juvenile games with your food?"

"She's a tasty amusement; a way to spend a little time, nothing more nothing less." He lies with ease, surprised by how the words sit so awkwardly on his tongue. Isabella has become a draw that far surpasses simple amusement. He's beginning to realize just how much. "You're wasting your time looking for answers here, Tanya. You can tell Alice that as well." Edward turns to leave the room, dismissing her. A nagging sense of unease has begun to bite into his psyche. He dislikes being so far from the source of amusement they're discussing.

Isabella. Such a fragile thing. Really, he shouldn't leave her so long to her own devices—especially not with that Quileute dog from her past sniffing after her so assiduously. His impenetrable skin prickles, the stolen blood in his veins moving faster than it should. With each passing minute, an odd emptiness opens inside of him. One he senses can only be filled by her.

He's drawn up short by Tanya's sudden mocking laughter. "Really, Edward?" she asks, her tone dripping acid. "Do you think me so stupid, so easily led astray?"

He turns slowly, eyes gone hard and black with a warning she stupidly ignores. Too late, he realizes his anger only betrays his lie that Isabella is unimportant to him.

"Look at you!" She flares back, her own eyes darkening. "You can't wait to get rid of me so you can get back to her." Her arms rise, hands gesturing to their surroundings. "And this place? There is no way you did all this for yourself, Edward. I know you better than that. This place screams of comforts and necessities meant for a human. You plan to keep her for the long-term."

She steps closer, her mind filling with her suspicions as quickly as she voices them, forcing him to hear them in tandem.

"You reek of sex."

"Be careful," he warns when her thoughts turn dark as she wonders if the end of all this nonsense doesn't lie in her disposing of the human so he can be free of whatever insanity grips him. Only the fact that Edward catches glimpses of the thought that she is testing him, keeps him from silencing the threat she imposes.

"Edward, of all people, I can attest to the delights of a romp with a human. But anything more than a night with them is ridiculous. She's not like _us_. Her life is a flash in the pan and a burden. On top of that, there are laws, and you are breaking them!" Tanya lowers her voice striving for reason. "Your family misses you. You belong with them, with us. Not here, playing with fire. You know the keeping of mortal pets is forbidden, and you know the penalty for revealing yourself to humans, Edward. No mercy, just death. The Volturi leaders will order your execution and send the best of their coven to eradicate you and this entire town to avoid exposure. You know this!"

Again, her mind creates mental snapshots of ways to end Isabella's life. With a growl loud enough to create vibrations in any object not securely nailed down, Edward grips her by the throat and pins her to the far wall. The newly placed drywall cracks behind the force, outlining her form before crumbling in chunks that fall to the floor at their feet.

Edward could end her life with one sharp twist of his hand, but instead of retaliating or fighting to save herself, Tanya merely looks at him sadly as he bears his teeth in threat. Near insane with rage at the idea that Tanya could harm even one hair on Isabella's head, it's all he can do to control himself.

"Oh, Edward. Look at you," she murmurs, placing a hand upon his chest in restraint that lacks any force. "You are so much farther gone than Alice understands. You care for this human, don't you?"

A snarl is her answer as Edward drops his hand. "Leave," he orders quietly, his tone dripping violence. "Leave this house, leave this town. If you value your existence, you will disappear and not return."

"Edward, this is foolish..."

"Enough," he roars, smashing his hand into what's left of the wall beside her head. "You come to my home, threatening what is _mine_, and you call me foolish?" He lowers his voice and drops his head to breathe in her ear. "Do it again. Think of her death, Tanya, and I will show you just how important she is to me."

He takes a step back, and she wisely moves toward the door.

"I wouldn't have hurt her, Edward," she tells him quietly and without looking at him. "I only wanted to make you see the dangers of this insanity you're under. You may care for this human, but your interest will wane just as surely as her life. You think only of yourself, and you forget that your actions have consequences for the family you've so coldly left behind. You are not the only one who will be punished if this game you're playing is discovered."

Before he can respond, she's gone, nothing but an open door and a hot, muggy breeze to mark her former presence. Useless frustration tears at him. Over a century, and still the bonds of his past tear at him, dog his heels, and bind his ankles with responsibilities he cannot outrun.

Tanya's warning reverberates through his head, and his frustration grows. What has Alice seen, for surely this meddling has a reason beyond her lack of boundaries and need to reunite her family?

The Volturi, leaders of the vampire world, have long watched Carlisle's coven. They dislike Carlisle's independence and his thwarting of the ways of vampire kind, even if they do occasionally make use of his talent at procuring free blood. If you include the Denali coven in Alaska that makes up Tanya's extended family, Carlisle's coven is the largest known. Comprised of vampires with exceptional gifts, Aro and his brother rulers have long been wary and watchful, searching for any sign that may represent a threat to them.

Carlisle lives quietly. Edward's rogue behaviour has been the only ripple in the pond of serenity and peaceful existence he surrounds his mate and 'children'—for lack of a better term—with.

No matter Edward's wish to remain free, he knows he cannot fully shirk all responsibility. If his actions endanger them... And he is breaking laws, many of them...

He growls and slams a hand down on the countertop. It splits like a weak eggshell, cracks spiralling over its surface. One large fissure opens down the center as it caves into the wooden frame surrounding it. The halves slide in toward each other, and the base crumples under its weight as Edward spins on his heel to leave the house.

In the car Jasper left him, he revs the engine, its throaty purr rippling through the thick, humid air as he accelerates away from the house. His unease at leaving Isabella alone grows with each click of the odometer. He thinks of her. Her beauty that makes him hunger even more than her blood—her dark eyes, watching him and sparking with challenge and heat. The fear she conquers to hold him, to gift him with her presence and her blood. The way her delicate, lush little body curves up towards his every touch as she accepts his passion; feeding it, welcoming it, submitting fully to him and the connection between them.

_She is so much more to me than just a distraction..._

_I am an unchanging creature, yet she has changed me..._

The realization rocks him as he speeds toward her house.

_Mate._

Isabella Swan is his mate—meant for him, fated for him, made for him and him alone.

He smiles darkly as he coaxes the last ounce of speed from the car, rocketing toward his new life.

He will need to be careful that his actions do not reflect on those he's left behind, but from this point forward, he exists for one reason and one reason alone. Isabella.

He's waited a very long time for her. Had in fact grown resigned to the idea such a connection was impossible for him. Now that he has found her, he will protect her, kill for her. Above all else, he will forsake everyone and everything, former family included, to keep her.

Always.

. . . . . .

* * *

**A/N** I know. Silly, silly Bella, thinking she can run. You had to know that was coming though, right? ;-) But hey, Preyward had an epiphany - finally - so it's not all bad.

Thanks for reading.

Aleea


	13. Houkutus

**A/N** Apologies for the long wait. Thank you all for the well wishes, concern, support, patience, and understanding as I struggle with my health demons. I say it often, but maybe not often enough—I have the best readers in the fandom, bar none.

Special thanks as always to my super sweet beta **SaritaDreaming**.

Huge hugs and thanks also to **Amy & Jo **(my blessing and my curse, lol) for keeping me sane and on track, and for understanding/accepting that fanfiction is just as important to me as my original fiction. _We stay the course, ever mindful of the plot, and in our journey we find ourselves, lose ourselves, find ourselves again..._

**. . . . . .**

**Reminder** - When we last left off, Bella was on the run, and Edward realized Isabella is much more than just a pet. Will he find her...?

. . . . . .

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

**. . . . . .**

_Destined by a fate so cruel_

_And drugged to delight..._

_. . . . . ._

Chapter 13

Houkutus

. . . . . .

Edward reaches Isabella's house in a matter of lawbreaking minutes, choosing to park a few houses down on the opposite side of the street. The time for subterfuge, unfortunately, has not ended. This position allows him to easily see and hear everything, while still being far enough away anyone who notices him won't directly be able to associate his presence with Isabella. As much as he wants to claim her for all to see, the instincts he's honed over two centuries urge him to continue to maintain a facade of distance. Other than the first night he found her, he's been exceedingly careful to avoid any possibility of witnesses that could tie him to Isabella. For now, at least until his plans are concrete, Edward is willing to perpetrate the charade, despite the way it galls him to slink about in the shadows.

Soon, though...

_Soon._

Edward takes a moment to slip the cell phone he so rarely uses out of his pocket and hits the pre-programmed number without hesitation, waiting for Alice to answer. She does so on the first ring.

"What do you see?" he asks without preamble, knowing she most likely already discerned the when and why of this call, even if her gift is not working as well as it usually does. He refuses to indulge her in pleasantries.

"Nothing," Alice all but growls in response, petulance and irritation present in the way she bites off the word. Even after a century, he can see her perfectly in his mind, and detect her presence in the corner of his heart reserved for those he left behind. It takes effort not to remember Alice's smile and her unnatural exuberance. It takes even more effort to refuse to acknowledge that the sound of her voice fills him with a sudden nostalgic longing to see her. The joy he once felt loving her as a sister and friend is bittersweet and tainted with his hatred of his past life. Decades of suppressing his emotions aid him now.

Hardening his already hard heart, Edward focuses on the one thing that truly matters to him. Isabella.

"And why, pray tell, Alice, are you seeing nothing?"

She huffs, the tone of that one unnecessary sound revealing what he already knows; Alice's visions are so blocked by this human Edward himself cannot read, she has no idea of the monumental discovery he's made. Isabella is his _mate_. His mind still whirls with that knowledge. Even as Alice continues to speak, it plays repeatedly through his thoughts, filling him with the most surreal pleasure. Isabella isn't an unnatural obsession; she is literally meant to be his. She will _always_ be his.

"That's the point, Edward. I don't know why I can't see anything. I only know I can't," Alice replies acidly. "And now your future is all jumbled. The end result of your game with this human isn't something I can predict. You need to stop before this all ends badly."

"Aro?"

She hesitates, and though he cannot read her thoughts from such a great distance, he knows her well despite the years that have passed. She wasn't expecting that question.

"Aro is Aro. I see nothing from his end, but I haven't been watching him any closer than normal either."

"Then why send Tanya to warn me that my actions have consequences?" he asks angrily.

Alice sighs, beleaguered. "Your issues with Tanya don't concern me, Edward. I sent her to learn more about your pet, that's all."

"Then there are no concerns with the Volturi?"

"Given the fact you're breaking half a dozen of their laws, there are most assuredly concerns," she says, her tone dripping disdain.

"Alice, do not play with me."

She relents with another put-upon, theatrical sigh. "I don't see anything involving the Volturi, Edward, but keep in mind, my visions aren't exactly cooperative in this circumstance." The inflection in her voice changes at this last part, sounding near desperate at the admittance of her fallibility. Edward smiles despite himself. Alice will be Alice. She's a tiny control freak who relies far too much on her psychic ability, which is a shame given her gifts penchant for fluctuation based on nothing more than personal whim.

He stops smiling and injects ice into his voice. "Listen to me, sister. My life does not concern you; my actions concern you even less. This ends now. Unless you see something that directly relates to your safety or the safety of your family, you will stop your meddling. The next unexpected visitor you send will not return to you whole, if I bother to return them at all. Do you understand?"

"I miss you," she responds quietly, the longing in her voice conveying decades of the sentiment. "Esme and Rose and Emmett miss you. It's not just my family, it's _yours_, too, Edward!"

He doesn't fail to notice how she leaves Carlisle and Jasper out of the equation.

His hardened emotions soften a fraction, though he chooses to disregard her insistence about the relationship between him and the others. "I will not let my actions affect you or the family, Alice. Stop torturing yourself trying to keep tabs. I know how to look after myself."

"Edward, this girl is nothing. She is not our kind. Just a human..."

The softening abates as quickly as it came. Despite their insistence upon living and acting like humans, Edward is reminded his former family are all hypocrites, believing themselves superior to mortals even as they strive so hard to live their fake human lives.

"I mean what I say, Alice. No more interfering." He lowers his voice farther. "Do not underestimate me. You know as well as I do that I allow you these glimpses into my life to soothe you. I can and will disappear so far off your psychic radar you will never see another vision regarding me again. Stay out of my affairs."

"I only want our family whole again," she cries.

Edward ignores her plea. "If I ever choose to return, Alice, you'll be the first to know." He disconnects the call abruptly and shuts down the phone, not putting it past Alice to lie about her visions and have more information than she is letting on. He'll purchase a new phone later.

He turns his attention to Isabella's house and realizes instantly that she is not there. The familiar sound of her heartbeat and the scent of her ambrosial blood are missing.

The house isn't vacant, however. He senses and hears the sound of the television and the breathing and heart rate—not to mention, now that he's familiar with it, the unpleasant smell—of the stunted mutt, Jacob Black.

Edward's lip curls, a long hiss spilling from between his clenched teeth. It takes effort not to storm into the house and tear the halfling dog outside to rip him to shreds that will litter Isabella's small front yard. He keeps his temper in check and forces his mind to do what it does normally without effort.

Jacob's thoughts are skipping, as so many humans are wont to do, from topic to topic. Although Edward notices a focus present that is stronger than most, the wolf genes present in the way Jacob's mind processes things faster and clearer than normal humans.

Edward waits impatiently through musings about the baseball game on the television and meandering, troubled thoughts about the female whose bed he recently left. Finally, Isabella appears in Black's thoughts.

_Charlie's going to kill me. Damn it!_

Flashes of Isabella appear as he replays prior events.

_Jacob answered his cell phone early this morning and heard Isabella..._

The sound of her voice is sweet as it spills from Jacob's mind to Edward's, untainted by the inferior hearing that would have been marred by a normal human's auditory capacity.

"_Jake? I need the truck. Can I borrow it for a few days?"_

"_Bella? What's wrong? What's going on?"_

_Jacob sat up in a bed, a female rising as well, glaring at him before storming from the room_.

_Leah Clearwater_, Edward discerns from Jacob's thoughts, though he could care less about the flash of toned ass and long mocha colored legs that exit the door in Jacob's memory.

"Explain, dog," he urges out loud, regardless of the fact the mutt cannot hear his order. Not for the first time, Edward wishes his telepathy came with a secondary talent of mind control. Being able to read thoughts without any ability to force the thinker to focus can be beyond tedious.

_More images follow those of the naked female as Jacob scrambled to dress. Flashes of the bedroom he was in mingle with the mental images his imagination conjured, envisioning a dozen scenarios where Isabella was in trouble._

"_Nothing's wrong...well...actually, I'm... Jake, look. I just need it, okay? You said I could have it whenever I wanted, remember? Or are you reneging?"_

Edward frowns, disliking the connection such an open-ended agreement implies. Once again the weaving, interlinking web of human relationships reminds him that simply snatching Isabella away would not be without consequence. The genuine concern and affection pouring from the dog's mind is further support of that. The mutt wouldn't easily give up searching for Isabella if Edward were to take her away.

In his thoughts, Jacob continues his memory of that moment, overlaying each action with his emotional sentiments. _He didn't want to give her the truck, but he had promised..._

"_No, I mean, you can have it, of course you can, Bella. It's just, you sound upset, and you've never asked before, so..."_

"_Jake, I don't have time to argue. Can I have it or not?"_

Edward listens carefully to the tone of Isabella's voice in Black's memory, noting instantly the frantic emotion she attempted to conceal. Her breathing was too fast, though she was trying to control it. He also notes the sounds accompanying the words, as if she was moving quickly around the room engaged in activity of some kind. Jacob heard it as well at the time, and he's pondering it now in the present, categorizing the noises. He recognized the sounds of door and drawers opening and closing repeatedly. The abrading sound of a zipper was followed by the rustle of fabrics being folded and shoved into something made of canvas. The dog is remarkably observant, providing even subtle nuances, like the sound of fear in Isabella's tiny, barely noticeable, quavering sigh.

Jacob's mind fast forwards, but Edward catches all the brief of glimpses.

_Jacob leaving the small house located on the Reservation. The female named Leah, berating him with a scorned glare and the flash of hurt in pained eyes._

Edward notes Jacob's reaction to that with interest. The mutt was torn, his feelings for the Quileute girl stronger than he's yet fully admitted to himself.

Interesting.

Edward files that information away with the other facts about the dog he's mentally keeping a running list of. The wolf-boy has a few vulnerable points that could come in handy should he decide to be problematic to Edward.

Jacob's thoughts continue.

_The drive to Isabella's house, and the genuine concern the dog felt as he drove._

Edward again recognizes those emotions as honest but snarls at them nonetheless.

_Mine_, he thinks as he resists the urge to make it known to the dog that Isabella is not his to be concerned about.

Jacob finally ponders the moments after arriving at Isabella's home, and he gifts Edward with snatches of their face-to-face meeting.

_Isabella was pale._

_Her hands trembled when she accepted the vehicle's keys._

"_I just need to run some errands in Port Angeles," she told Jacob, yet carefully avoided looking at him._

"_Bella, I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be going out of town. Does Charlie know?"_

"_I'm over eighteen. I don't have to clear everything by him, Jake. Or by you for that matter."_

The argument continued, Jacob imploring her to let him come with her as Isabella grew more and more agitated.

"_No! Absolutely not. God, Jake, sometimes I think you're so clueless. Stop smothering me!"_

Edward smiles at her fierceness, pleased with his little human and even more by the crestfallen look on the mutt's face.

"_Bella, for Christ's sake! No one knows where Newton is, and you're acting like a bratty kid, running off and being irresponsible. What the hell is so important you need to go today? Wait at least until this blows over and we know where Newton is, so you're safe."_

_Isabella's face paled further, her mouth pinching tight._

"_I'm done, Jake. I'm sick to death of you and Charlie trying to control my life. Give me the keys and leave. I have as much right to that truck as you do, and you know it. For once, just once, quit trying to be something you're not to me. Be my friend, and let me have the truck. I have a right to go where I want, and I'm not stupid. I'll be smart." Her expression turned pleading. "Please!"_

Edward reads the struggle Jacob went through and the emotions behind it—protectiveness, pride, love, dismay, worry, and frustration. He also reads the fact that Jacob registered not all was right with Isabella's story as he placed the keys in her trembling, outstretched hand.

_His fingers clenched around Isabella's hand, trapping the keys and her fingers beneath his firm, large grip. _

Edward hisses, furious at that past proprietary touch even as he's grateful for the way the dog's heightened senses picked up her escalated pulse and the sweat damp of her clammy, cool palms. The stunted wolf smelled her fear and excitement, the adrenaline pulsing through her system, flooding her nerves, tightening her musculature as impatience and worry flickered across her expression, her eyes darting to the door as though she expected someone to come through it at any minute.

Not someone.

Him.

Edward chuckles at that. Despite his impatience to be after his wayward little lamb, getting a chance to witness such spirit and fire in his mate pleases him immensely.

"_Something's wrong. I can tell." _Edward watches as memory Jacob said stupidly and unnecessarily_. "Your hands are freezing and you're shaking. Trust me, Bella. Tell me what's going on, what has you so upset."_

It doesn't take much for Edward to interpret memory Isabella's expression and akin it to that of a trapped animal. Jacob also noted the same, but he missed the mark when Isabella sputtered out a bald faced lie.

"_Of course something is wrong. I'm stressed. A crazy guy plastered pictures of me all over his wall and stalked me without me being aware for months," she spat. "Now he's missing, and...no one...knows where he is."_

Edward notes the way she faltered on 'no one' with a smirk, also noting how it slipped by the dog. Even now, with the moment fresh in his mind, Jacob stupidly disregards it. Though it's to Edward's advantage, he can't help but snort in derision. The dog is an odd mixture of hyper awareness and oblivious ineptitude. It's all too clear he's never honed his abilities. Curious.

He's also overly quick to trust Bella wasn't lying to him, something else that amuses Edward, though the dog does at least try to reason with her.

"_All the more reason for you not to go."_

_Isabella attempted to drag her hand away from Jacob's grip but failed._

"_I need a break! I just want to get away for the day, okay?"_

"_Where are you going exactly?"_

_Huffing, she attempted again to pull free and Jacob released her this time_.

Luckily for him, Edward thinks. The moment might be in the past, and Edward can discern that Jacob's grip was carefully tempered to avoid causing Isabella pain, but a vampire can be expected to take only so much. One more second of confinement and touch, and Edward would have lost his mind, forcing this present Jacob to suffer some type of pain-filled retribution.

Memory Isabella continues to lie in Jacob's mind.

"_To the bookstore." Her expression showed her thinking hard, searching for plausible excuses, though, again, the dog fails to read her effectively. He believed her merely upset and stubborn. "And I'm going to meet...Jessica...and...have lunch at Bella Italia."_

Memory Jacob frowned, and present Jacob fast forwards through a rapid stream of images.

_- Walking Isabella to the door, followed by him questioning her when she picked up a duffel bag to take with her._

_- Buying her paltry excuse about dry cleaning without thinking to use his heightened olfactory abilities to register the scents of what was undoubtedly clean clothing. _

_- Warning her unnecessarily about the sticky clutch on the truck._

_- Insulting her by offering her money to fill the gas tank._

_- Asking her to call, then buying her faked reassurance that she would, because again, he believed Isabella incapable of subterfuge._

Edward laughs low in his throat at that. His lovely human is indeed a delectable little innocent, but she's far from being above deceit when it suits her. He likes that. The small taint on her soul appeals to him just as much as her raw, innate sensuality which he has been slowly dragging to the surface.

His angel wears tarnished little wings, and corrupting her further is something he's looking forward to immensely.

Oh, the ways he will corrupt her...

Edward digs further into the dog's head, watching as Isabella left her house and backed the truck out of the driveway. She didn't look back.

Discerning there is nothing left to learn, he reaches out to restart the car. Jacob is determined to wait for Isabella, something that hardly pleases Edward. The dog will be a much less frequent visitor to Isabella's home after today; he'll ensure that. For now, Edward is complacent to let the stupid mutt sit. It's clear to him that Isabella is running and has no intention to return. Not that her intentions matter in this circumstance. Isabella will be home before nightfall, just not the home the dog sits in.

Edward calculates the time Isabella left, allowing his brain to multi-task and easily map out possibilities for which direction she might have taken.

Humans are predictable in so many ways, and within seconds, he discerns the most probable trail and begins to follow it. Just outside of town, he picks up her scent on the humid breeze.

He turns on the car stereo, pleased to see the system is expensive, state of the art, and already set to play a commercial-free satellite station featuring classical music. The delicate, melodious strains of Debussy's Clair de Lune decant from the top of the line speakers, flooding the car with lush sound.

The thrill of the chase fills Edward's predatory form with the most delicious sensations as he settles into the leather seat, his foot pressing the pedal to metal.

. . . . . .

Bella bites her last fingernail down to the quick, tasting the coppery bitterness of her blood. Revolted and nauseated by the scent and taste, she tucks the hand between her thighs, clenching them as she checks the rear-view mirror—again.

The cars behind her are just cars. No black, sleek, expensive vehicles in sight.

Not that she's naive enough to be reassured by the little she can see.

He could be driving a different car. Attempting to blend in, pacing her, playing with her, following and giving her just enough rope to hang herself—not that she isn't already hung.

Ten minutes past Port Angeles, the ache inside her empty chest became more cavernous than ever, forcing her to hunch over the steering wheel, trying uselessly to abate the discomfort she knows is only in her mind.

The more miles she's put between them, the more she feels the loss of him. He's the only known antidote she's ever found to this fiery, empty ache, and she's experiencing the loss of him acutely.

_Edward._

Now, three hours later, nearly an hour outside of Seattle and heading God only knows where, it's so much worse than it's ever been.

She feels nearly insane with the gnawing emptiness, and the sensation itself is actually what reassures her he isn't behind her. She's nothing if not certain that if he were, her pain wouldn't be this acute.

She tries to draw strength from that and fails.

She can taste him, smell him, feel him all over her, and she misses the things he made her feel. Not just the relief of the aching emptiness, not even the way he played her body and gave her nearly unbearable pleasure.

No, if she's honest, she misses things she should never miss. Like the thrill and danger of him, and the way he snuck into her life, banishing the fake light she's spent years trying to erect. The way he's filled everything with the most seductive and alluring of shadows.

She misses the power of him. The way she felt not only owned by him, but as though she owns a part of him as well.

_He killed to protect me_. It's so wrong, but a tiny corner of her mind feels a wicked thrill at that, even as anxiety and logic try to overrule the sick little pleasure.

Charlie taught her murder is always wrong. Charlie taught her a jury made up of impartial people or an overpaid court is the only correct way to judge a person's crime.

Charlie is always the first to admit the system doesn't work well.

Charlie is a hypocrite, and none of this reasoning stops the way she feels.

Bella pushes her hair behind her ear, noticing how much her hands are trembling. A brush of her fingertips across her mouth reminds her how much she misses Edward's touch and his kiss, and yes, even his bite. Her blood feels too thick, too abundant, as though her veins are too small and engorged.

"You're sick," she mutters out loud. "There is something very wrong with you. You need to get away from him, before you lose your mind completely, you idiot."

Talking to herself in third person seems to be a new facet of her recent insanity. She struggles to remember Renee ever talking to herself and can't find a single instance. Instead of feeling reassured, she only accepts her illness must have its own unique idiosyncrasies.

She flips on the radio, wincing as heavy metal music throbs and screeches through the tinny speakers. Flicking the dial rapidly, she stops on a station playing classical music. Debussy's Clair de Lune sounds sad and slightly distorted on the trucks ancient, cheap stereo system, but she leaves it on, hoping it will soothe her rattled nerves.

A half hour later, after pushing the poor trucks beleaguered engine past its normal sedate pace, and hearing the whine and rattle of its strained components, Bella eyes a rest stop sign warily.

She needs to stop. The truck needs gas, and so does she. Strong black coffee and some kind of food are necessary. She has no appetite and knows any coffee she finds will be horrible, but she also knows she needs fuel of some kind to continue. Her impulsive decision to run and the stress of the morning have worn her down.

She also needs to pee.

A last look behind her, and one more forced mental reassurance based on the ache that is worse than it has ever been, and she prepares to turn onto the off ramp. She waits until the last minute, ignoring the rules of safe driving by not signaling and cutting off a blue minivan carrying a middle age couple. They honk, and she sees the chubby soccer mom in the passenger seat shoot her the finger as they swerve and dart into the passing lane.

The rest stop is packed. A McDonalds, a busy gas station, and a coffee shop look to be raking in a killing. Bella takes comfort in the crowd, certain that being surrounded by travelers is her safest bet, not that she intends to linger, and not that she lowers her guard at all.

He's confined to the same traffic laws as everyone else, she thinks, attempting to create a reassuring list of rationality.

_He can't be close. I'd feel him. He's supernatural, but not omnipotent. He can't find me that easily. I covered my tracks. No one knows where I am. He'll look, but it will take him hours yet to even know I'm missing, seeing as how he never shows up during the day_.

Can he even go out in daylight?

Bella shivers, the reassurances failing to ease her nerves despite the logic behind him.

A moment passes as she watches the flow of traffic and finds a parking spot. A moment more as she scans everything. Her senses are on such high alert she's getting a tension headache. The muscles in her back scream in protest at the constant tight way she's holding her body.

Another moment passes as she girds her nerves and finds the courage to step out of the truck. Being inside the moving vehicle granted her a small measure of feeling safe. Now, out in the open, she feels vulnerable and exposed.

Scurrying to the main entrance door of the rest stop complex, Bella tries to berate herself.

_What makes you so sure he's even going to bother looking for you?_

_You're nothing, probably just a passing plaything to him. He'll replace you rather than go to the trouble of chasing you down._

She wonders at the pain these thoughts trigger.

_I want to be important to him._

_But I don't want him to find me._

_Liar_, her mind sings. Grimacing, she puts one foot in front of the other and enters the building. Her palms sweat and her heart races, but her eyes see nothing except innocent faces—dozens of harried families on vacations, and a multitude of business men and women in rumpled suits looking weary and busy all at the same time.

The smell of greasy fast food assaults her, making her nausea grow. She searches for the rest rooms, spotting two, one to her left and one to her right. The one to her right looks less busy...

The hair on the back of her neck stands on end.

The ache in her middle eases, loosening like an untied knot.

_Oh, God._

Her blood runs hot in her veins as she turns, knowing he's here.

Impossibly.

She turns to face the large glass wall of windows and watches that black sleek car pull into the rest stop parking lot and slide into place only five short slots from her truck. She's frozen, her mind screaming run while her body melts into place. Every second she's been away from him has been a physical assault against her body and mind, and she's beyond exhausted. Hopelessness fills her eyes with tears created from equal parts defeat and relief.

_I'm so fucked_, she realizes. She doesn't even have it in her to try and run away again. Especially not with the sweet respite of the ache, and especially not with the shiver of desire that runs hot and cold up her nerve endings at the thought that he's nearly close enough to touch...

She watches him slide from the car, sinuous and lethally beautiful, a dark pair of sunglasses his only concession to the bright summer sunlight. She doesn't want to feel a thrill at how good looking he is. She especially doesn't want to feel a thrill that his presence here proves he wants her.

"Guess that answers your question about his kind and daylight," Bella mutters under her breath. Yet another myth put to bed.

Her heart seems to beat to the syllables of his name, faster and faster as his gaze skips over people and cars, zeroing in on her as though she's wearing a flashing neon sign.

She can't tell for certain, but she thinks he smirks. Whether he does or not, the result is the same. The last flicker of her desire to run dies a quiet, fruitless death. She turns and walks through the throngs of people, searching for a quiet place to sit and wait for her fate.

It's surprisingly easy to give up.

. . . . . .

Edward finds her all too easily.

Predictable little human.

He would have liked a longer hunt. Time and effort, after all, only enhance success. Still, he can't deny the enjoyment he feels at finding her, or the strange sense of relief that he has found her whole and unharmed.

Silly, beautiful lamb, thinking she could run from him. He will need to teach her to take better care of what belongs to him.

With the thrill of the hunt fading, Edward feels mildly irked and considers punishing her, not that he has a clue how to go about punishing a difficult mate. His incisors ache as he nears the decrepit truck that made it so easy to track her. He probably should have taken time to imbibe himself of some of Carlisle's condescending gift, slaking his thirst a touch before tracking her. The hunt has exasperated his appetite, drawing out the predator's need to partake of what he's caught.

Reining in his hunger is difficult, but he manages. It's easier now, knowing Isabella is his mate. She's not disposable. He'll have to be more careful with her than ever before.

Edward stares with disdain at the ancient behemoth of a truck that made it easy to track her. The tell-tale path of carbon, oil, and rust it left in its passing stood out to him like a trail of proverbial bread crumbs.

Not, that he needed such obvious spore to track. Isabella drove with the windows down, her scent weaving a red olfactory path he was able to follow like a shark in water.

He flicks a sharp fingernail over the driver's door of the truck, faded red paint flecks cascading down and dotting the black asphalt like little droplets of anemic blood.

Isabella's scent commingles with the strong stench of the dog that's entrenched in the interior. He dislikes the mixture immensely. The slightest flick of his wrist and the hood opens, latches giving only the slightest of protest screeches, weakened as they are by age and corrosion. In an instant, he has the fuel line disengaged, the strong reek of gasoline mingling in the hot air with the scent of gas from the cars filling up at the nearby station. Another small scrape of his fingernail creates a shower of sparks on the small amount of fuel he allowed to puddle beneath the truck before he reconnected the fuel line.

A soft whoosh of sound and the gas ignites a burning trail that licks its way up into the undercarriage. Edward closes the hood, taking note of the obliviousness of the surrounding humans who haven't noticed him at all. He moves away from the truck and makes his way to the entrance of the rest stop before any of their slow senses notice the flames.

He slides into the cooler interior, assaulted by the sounds of dozens of minds and the smells of human food sources and human bodies. None of it masks Isabella's. He finds her unerringly, sitting at a table in the far corner of the building, her back to him. Her spine is straight, her shoulders defiant and square, though a quiver of submission vibrates her form over and over again.

Sweet little lamb, he thinks with a smile as he hears the fire truly catch on the truck outside. The slow reaction of the humans who notice but fail to act quickly, create a muffled roar of sound.

Isabella doesn't notice. She is proud and defiant—delectably fearful yet resilient.

He joins her, taking her arm, careful to temper his strength to be gentle on her delicate flesh. A little force urges her to rise with just the right amount of power to demonstrate resistance would be silly. She doesn't look at him, but her heart races with more than just fear, her excitement its own uniquely pleasant scent. Her stubborn little chin, while tilted defiantly, trembles.

Edward slides his hand down her arm, and takes her hand in his, raising it to his lips to kiss the fragrant flesh on the back of her wrist. He's missed her. The relief he feels touching her again, finding her unharmed, sweeps over him in a powerful wave. His tongue flicks surreptitiously over the small crusts of blood around her battered, chewed little nail beds, the taste of her as divine as ever.

"Come, Isabella," he says gently, sensing her nervousness escalating. "Time to go home."

She doesn't resist as he leads her out. Her truck burns out of control now, the stench of charring metal and liquefying rubber stinging her nose so she covers it. Her eyes widen on a gasp, but he gives her no chance to stop, his pace quick, forcing her to keep up, her hot little hand clasped tight in his cooler grip. He feels her blood throbbing under her the skin of her fingers, calling to him the way only her blood can. His incisors ache with renewed fury. Impatience stops him from fully enjoying her sputtering wordless exclamations of shock and distress. The roar of the fire is very loud and very hot as he quickly tucks her inside his car, strapping on her seat belt. The hiss of an extinguisher and the stench of chemical foam joins the reek of burning machinery, heralding the first human to think on his feet as the man rushes to the scene and tries to put out the fire.

Edward backs out of the parking slot, pausing just long enough for Isabella to see the truck is doomed before he races out of the lot.

She cranes her neck and upper body enough that as they leave, she has the perfect rear view of the humans scattering for safety at the shouted urgings of the fire extinguisher wielder. The foam can't obliterate a fire with so much fuel feeding it.

The explosion is loud, even over the racing, purring engine.

The decrepit eyesore of a truck is destroyed beyond repair, nothing more than a charred husk.

Isabella is silent as she turns back around, the reflection of the fire seeming to burn in her perfect eyes.

Edward takes her hand and kisses it once more, running his nose over her wrist, inhaling deeply.

"So, my sweet lamb. Did you enjoy your little adventure?"

. . . . . .


	14. Спокуса

A/N Thank you to everyone for the great feedback/reviews from last chapter. You guys are amazing! Thank you to Saritadreaming for wrangling my commas and keeping me from making a total fool of myself with crimes to grammar. Thank you to Paula for pre-reading and always making me laugh with her wonderful comments. Thank you to Amy and Jo for keeping me sane and holding my head above water. _Cry me a river, and I'll build you a boat. Come sail into the safe harbour of my arms..._ ;)

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

. . . . . .

_Laughing as these lies unfold..._

Chapter 14

**Спокуса**

. . . . . .

Jake watches time tick by. He sits on Bella's couch and stares at his phone, flipping through his contact list, pausing on Charlie's number. Twice now a patrol car has passed the house, slowing down to a near stop to survey the property. He thinks it's Embry. If it is, Jake plans to kick his ass for being so completely unobservant. It sends a cold rush up his spine that the person Embry is supposed to be checking on isn't here and no one except Jake seems the wiser.

Imagining what could happen to Bella under the supposed watchful eye of her father and his small town deputies, clenches Jake's guts into a painful knot.

_Yeah, like you're so much better?_ His conscience mocks him. _You let her walk out the door, and you know damn well something is up with her—something more than just her wanting to get out of town for a day._

He runs an unsteady hand through his close cropped hair, making a mental note to get it cut soon. Billy will scowl. Leah will tell him how hot he'd look with long hair.

Tradition. Roots. Heritage. They all dictate a male his age in the Quileute tribe should wear his hair long.

Fuck that. One more way Jake finds to thumb his nose at the way of life he wants no part of.

He stares at Charlie's number on his cell phone, thinking about the message Charlie left on the answering machine ten minutes after Bella walked out.

"_Hey, Bells. Just checking in, but you're probably still sleeping. Call me when you get up. I'm gonna crash soon myself so if I don't hear the phone, leave me a message so I know everything's good. Okay?" A long pause followed, like he expected an answer. "Okay, well..." A gruff throat clear is followed by a terse and almost muttered "love ya," before the line disconnects, the machine clicking off._

That was four hours ago. Charlie must be asleep or else he would have called back by now. Jake runs his fingers through his hair some more, torn. He feels loyal to Bella, but Charlie has always been his ally. He doesn't like that Charlie isn't taking this situation with Newton serious, but keeping Charlie in the dark about Bella ditching town doesn't sit right with him either.

Still, Charlie is too fucking complacent. He always has been. It's why he left Bella with her nutcase of a mother for years, and Jake isn't too impressed with how Charlie is handling this Newton mess.

His thumb moves and scrolls back up the list to Bella's name. He's already called her three times. She's turned her phone off. Not surprising. Her stubbornness and independence are out of control, like always.

He scrolls back down and hits send on Jess's number. Like the last time, it rings twice and ends up on voice mail. He wonders if she's ignoring his calls. Unlike him with Charlie, Jess doesn't suffer from loyalty conflicts. She's on Bella's side, and Jake wouldn't put it past her to lie to him even if she did answer her phone.

"Fuck," he mutters, hanging up without waiting for Jess's overly friendly entreaty to 'leave a message.'

His own voice mail is empty. Seth hasn't returned his calls. Neither has Embry. Leah hasn't called once.

"Fuck," he mutters again, letting his head fall back against the couch. It's hot in here and he's sweating, but that's not what makes his stomach turn. Worry about Bella does that. Anxiety about Leah doesn't help.

Leah was weird last night. Jake replays their night together, trying to put his finger on her mood. Something he realizes he should have done last night instead of being in such a damn hurry to bury himself in her body and forget all his shit. Showing up at her place late and without warning, pretty much guaranteed she wasn't happy to see him, though she did let him in. When he tried to pull her in for a hug, she twisted away and went to sit down. He made an attempt to ask if everything was okay, watching her shrug and pick at a loose string on her cut-off sweatpants, but the truth is, he wasn't in the mood to talk or placate her. He went there to forget his shit, not bring on more. When all he got in response from her was a head shake, he let it drop.

When Leah stood up and went into the bedroom, he didn't stop her. When she paused in the doorway and pulled her old LA Lakers t-shirt up and off, baring her smooth back to him, he didn't stop her. The shorts followed. She wasn't wearing panties underneath. She glanced at him over her shoulder then disappeared into the bedroom, and Jake didn't stop her.

What he did was follow and watch as she laid down on the bed, bringing her knees up, feet flat on the sheets, knees falling open as she tucked one hand behind her head. She dragged the other over her flat, silk-skinned stomach, dipping down to touch herself, stroking over her pussy, opening herself for him, rubbing softly with a little moan.

Jake knew shit was off, knew this wasn't necessarily the right moment for sex. But he was a red-blooded male, and so he stripped off his shirt, took her by the ankles and dragged her closer until her ass hit the edge of the mattress. Pushing all thoughts about everything away, he dropped his head. She moved her hand up away from her smooth flesh and tangled it in his hair, lifting her hips to his mouth with a purr of approval.

Later, after they were both sweat slick and sated, she rested her head on his shoulder and ominously told him they needed to talk in the morning. He was too tired then to ask why, and he regrets that now, particularly since he walked out on her. He's never promised Leah anything, but lately he's getting the impression she wants something more from him.

He doesn't know how he feels about that. He likes her as a person. Even though she can be a bitch, Jake gets her. He understands that having her feelings trampled and betrayed by a past relationship left scars. Jake can commiserate; he has scars of his own, though Bella never truly betrayed him. Not the way Leah was betrayed. In Leah's case, her scars make her defensive and aggressive, a way of guarding what's left of her heart.

Leah's smart, and when she lets her guard down, she's funny and caring. Okay, she's a little too into Quileute beliefs and legends, siding too often with Billy when the old man nags about Jake's refusal to be part of the 'tribe,' but she's always there for him when he needs her. Then there's the sex, which is nothing short of amazing. He feels a familiar tinge of guilt at that thought. Sex with Leah is hot and uninhibited. As much as Jake loved Bella, _still loves Bella_, and as much as he loved making love to Bella, it was different. She certainly hadn't ever wanted him enough to strip, lie on the bed, and touch herself while he watched.

Making love with Bella was all about connection, and it was incredibly special to him to be with her that way. They were each other's firsts, and damn what they had was good, pure, _right_. But it would be a lie if he said he never wanted more out of their sex life towards the end of their relationship—more exploration, more desire, especially on Bella's part. More than once he felt their attraction was a little too one-sided, like he'd wanted her more than she'd wanted him. He realizes now that was all about her pulling away from him.

"Shit." Jake bangs his head repeatedly against the back of the couch, guilt tugging at him with the tangled influx of memories, both ancient and recent. He's always held a lot of respect for Bella. Now, though, he's starting to realize that there was more wrong with their relationship than he wanted to admit at the time.

Jake sits forward on the couch, muting the TV before running his hands over his face with a grunt. He feels like shit as he gets to his feet and drags his sorry ass into the kitchen. The fridge is nearly empty, and his stomach growls a complaint, reminding him he hasn't eaten in hours.

The snarl of his belly only reminds him of the breakfast Leah would've made him if he stuck around. She makes a mean omelet and watching her fine ass wiggle as she dances around her cute rooster-themed kitchen singing off-key to whatever is on the radio always makes him grin, setting a good tone for the day ahead.

"Fuck," he mutters yet again, slamming shut the fridge. His lip curls in distaste, and he's kind of glad he found nothing to eat. The stink in this house is getting on his nerves. Last time he was here, he thought Bella had some dead flowers rotting in vase somewhere, but the smell is still here and he hasn't seen any. Maybe it's some kind of new air freshener or cleaner, though why she wants the house to smell like rotting flowers, he has no goddamn idea. The stink reminds him of funeral homes or something. Whatever. All he does know is between the heat, the smell, and his tangled, stressed out thoughts and nerves, his desire to wait here till Bella is home and safe wanes.

Besides, he's thinking more and more that Bella lied to him about where she went and why. As he looks around, he wonders vaguely whether he should search for clues about that guy Quil saw her with, or just head straight to Jess's house and grill her for information. Bella was acting too weird before she left this morning, and Jake feels like he needs more answers about what's going on with her before he makes a decision whether to head out after her or call Charlie.

He stares at his phone again, hoping for answers and getting none, finding himself scrolling one more time through his contact list. When he pauses on Leah's name, his empty gut clenches a little harder. He feels like the biggest ass in the world for leaving like he did, and he wonders when shit between them became complicated.

As he walks out the door, resisting the urge to call Leah and check on her, he also wonders when exactly it was that the scales tipped, changing how he sees her. Not that it matters. Whatever feelings he might be developing for Leah, Jake can't and won't allow them to continue.

He's got more than enough on his plate, and the last thing he needs or wants is another tie to the Quileute and their crazy legends.

_Descendants of wolves, protectors against cold ones, tribal elders... Billy, constantly riding his ass lately about accepting who he is._ Yeah, not happening. Life is crazy enough without that bullshit.

Jake closes the door, scowling momentarily at the lock that's re-broken, this time for good. He makes a mental note to replace it tonight and engages the flimsier screen door lock before jogging down the stairs to the sidewalk.

Time enough for that later. After he's figured out what Bella is doing—or _who_.

. . . . . .

Edward says nothing. His focus is on the road and the silence eats at Bella with every click of the odometer.

She feels shocked and shaky-sick. She also feels full up and deliciously free of the empty ache that plagued her worse than ever since she left Forks. She has no idea how to assimilate the relief and mesh it with the overwhelming abundance of other emotions flickering over her. Her chaotic thoughts can't focus on anything singular. Not the rage at how he so casually blew up Jake's truck in a parking lot full of innocent witnesses. Not the way his smell makes her skin itch with the need to be touched and touch in return. Certainly not the weird sense of relief and pleasure she feels that he came for her. All these miles, and he came for her.

She ignored his patronizing question about whether or not she enjoyed her 'little adventure,' choosing instead to stare out the passenger side window at scenery that passes without her noting a single detail. They could be anywhere; her mind is simply too full to make observations about geographic banalities.

Edward doesn't seem to need an answer anyway. He drives with single-minded focus, ignoring her now completely.

Bella checks the time and tries to take note of her surroundings. Where are they? Where are they going? It's been only a half hour, but it feels so much longer. Is he driving her back to Forks? Should she be relieved if he is, or disappointed?

She shifts in her seat, the long day of driving and stress taking their toll in her stiff muscles and joints. She feels achy all over, like she's recovering from an illness. Or maybe just becoming ill; that would make more sense.

Does madness have physical symptoms?

She notices a rest stop sign and bites her lip, looking at Edward fully for the first time since getting in the car.

"There's a rest stop just ahead. Can we stop?"

He doesn't answer, and she chews her lip nervously. Aside from the aches and pains she really wants to stretch out, she's uncomfortably reminded by a painful bladder that she never did get the opportunity to use the rest room on her last ill-fated stop.

Her throat is parched as well, and though she still isn't hungry, a little food might go a long way in helping her overcome the shocked, shaky-sick feeling. She wouldn't doubt being a little hypoglycemic.

The exit is coming up fast, but Edward doesn't slow at all.

"Edward?"

Again, no answer. His eyes don't even flicker her way.

"Please?" It goads her to have to plead, but it would be worse if he keeps driving. She doubts she can hold her bladder all the way back to Forks, or wherever they're going—though it might serve him right to have his perfect leather wrecked.

Frustration makes her snap. "I can't just drive for hours and hours. Human, remember?"

Finally, he deigns to look at her. His expression confuses her. She expects his usual smug disdain, maybe even anger or condescension. Instead, his look is an unfathomable mixture of longing and pain.

It changes instantly to one she recognizes as oddly tender and mildly amused. As though he has no need to pay attention to the road—and truthfully, the way he maintains course and speed it seems he doesn't—he draws a line down her cheek with one cool finger, pausing on her jaw.

"How could I forget?" he queries, his tone soft and careful. "Your mortality is always at the forefront of my thoughts, Isabella."

Swallowing a sudden lump in her throat, and the strongest, most wrong urge to crawl into his lap and be held by him, Bella pulls back a little so his finger falls away. Despite the action, her tone of voice is equally as soft and careful when she responds.

"I need you to stop so I can use a restroom, Edward."

Despite being nearly on top of the exit, Edward executes a perfect turn, merging onto the off ramp without disrupting traffic or jarring her. She'd marvel at that if she wasn't so aware by now of how he can make even the most impossible task seem effortless.

He finds a parking space close to the doors, leaves the vehicle, and is at her side before she even has her seatbelt off. He extends his hand, and despite herself, she takes it, allowing him to help her out of the car. Her muscles protest and she knows he notices her wince, though he merely waits for her to move and makes no comment.

This rest stop is nowhere near as busy. With no gas station and only washroom facilities, a tiny gift shop, and a chain sandwich shop, it seems nearly deserted in comparison. A weary couple with two cranky toddlers in tow exit as they enter, and inside, only a handful of customers can be seen.

Still holding her hand, apparently oblivious to the way the man frowns slightly and gives him wide berth, pulling the woman and children closer as they leave, Edward instantly makes his way to the door marked _Ladies_. Bella attempts to tug her hand free only to gasp as Edward ushers her inside.

"What are you doing?" she asks angrily, her voice a low hiss in case anyone hears. "You can't come in here."

He gives her an amused look, and she quickly inspects the room, relieved to see no one else is in there. The usual sights greet her; a line of stalls to the left, a bank of sinks to the right. The room is neither overly clean nor overly dirty. Used, damp paper towels overflow a garbage can, and two of the sinks have drippy faucets and leaky soap dispensers. Someone has left a paper coffee cup on the counter, and someone else has doodled colourful and explicit male genitalia on a condom dispenser. Beside it a feminine hygiene dispenser has a tattered out of order sign that's apparently been there a long time.

Edward ignores this, or takes it all in long before she does, and makes his way to a small window Bella hasn't noticed until now. He runs a finger over the lock before turning to regard her with a cocky lift of an eyebrow, as if challenging her.

"You think I'm going to try and escape out that window?" she asks, wondering if he thinks she's that stupid or desperate. The opening is barely wide enough to let a child crawl through. Besides, where would she go on foot, running from a vampire? One who managed to find her when she was in a vehicle no less, with no witnesses, and all while being careful not to leave any trail. Despite there being no one else in the room, she pitches her voice low, scowling at him, fury building up inside her until she's certain she's going to go postal.

"Don't be ridiculous. Get out, before someone else comes in."

Stepping in front of her without seeming to have moved at all, Edward grips her chin between his fingers firmly. "I put nothing past you, little lamb. Trust is earned after all. As is freedom." He gestures to the bank of stalls. "I believe you needed the facilities, Isabella."

She does, badly, but she crosses her arms over her chest, refusing to let him humiliate her. "Get out," she repeats.

He laughs, but the sound is without humour and it makes her skin prickle with gooseflesh, that odd combination of fear and attraction mingling under her flesh. "You're trying my patience, little lamb. You would do well to remember that I have little of that as it is."

Bella feels tears burn and press behind her eyes. She blinks them back, determined not to cry in front of him, no matter how overwhelmed she feels. "I just want privacy. I'm not going to run. You've already shown me that it's pointless by finding me so fast. Or are you just getting off on embarrassing me?"

Edward studies her, his dark eyes intense and focused as he seems to peer right into her mind, searching for honesty. His facial expression softens, the grip of his fingers loosening on her chin, stroking now, tender and oh-so-contradictory.

"You are so very...human, little beauty." He exhales raggedly, his fingers slipping down to her throat and resting on her pulse. He taps lightly, in time with her racing heart, then just as suddenly releases her. Turning, he makes his way to the door. "Be expedient, Isabella. Public place or not, your delicate sensibilities aside, I will return if you're not prompt."

When the door closes, Bella can't resist checking out the window. She knows it's futile to run and has no intention of trying. If she did, the sight of the mangled lock hinge that couldn't be pried free with anything less than a crowbar would have stopped her in her tracks.

"What is it with him and locks," she snarls under her breath, though in truth, her quip is bravado and bluster. The sight of those metal components meant to interlock perfectly now resembling a misshapen blob, makes the bottom of her stomach quake.

She takes care of business quickly, not even the lessening of pain in her full bladder making her feel better. Now outside of the confines of the car, away from Edward's too intense presence, her mind is clearer. She knows it's useless to try to get away from him, and she's willing now to admit she doesn't truly want to get away from him, wrong as she knows that is.

So what's left? What's in between?

As she washes her hands and stares at her reflection, noting the dark circles under her eye and the pale washed out complexion of her skin, she can only wish she had answers.

. . . . . .

Edward is in a state. His body aches with wants and his mind whirls. Thoughts and desires rampant and unfulfilled temper his mood until it's foul. He did not think beyond finding Isabella, and now that he has found her, he's finding it hard to think beyond the now as well.

She ran from him. The thought eats at him. He's seen fear in her eyes. That thought eats at him more.

His thirst is a beast roaring at him—his desire to touch her and fuck her, yet another beast just as greedy.

He needs to think and think clearly. She makes it impossible.

The new knowledge that she is his mate only confounds the issues. His instincts roar at him to claim her and take her far from everything she knows.

He thinks of his home in Scotland in the Western Isles. The only place he considers a true home. The sprawling stone medieval estate is surrounded by lush forest and rolling hills, far from nosy, interfering civilization. It would be the perfect place to take a bride, to change a bride.

Because, yes, she will be his bride, and yes, oh yes, eventually he will change her, make her immortal like him. For the thought of losing her to some human frailty like age enrages him, despairs him.

And yet the complexities of what should be so simple assault him like the pummel of fists. He will draw attention to himself by taking her now. He hasn't been careful enough, he realizes. Her father has met him. Edward's jaw clenches at that foolishness. When Isabella was meant to be his plaything, his game with her father was simply part of the enjoyment. Now the man is a witness; one with connections and human law that will empower him to make a search for Isabella all too public.

The Volturi rulers have spies everywhere, highly trained to search out any news story that might point to a tale involving their kind. Secrets must be kept and the Kings are quick to deal with rule breakers. Edward can hide Isabella easily from human-kind, but he cannot hide himself from vampire-kind. Aro and his brothers, once on his trail, will eventually catch up with him.

If, at this point, he were to merely kill Isabella, his kings would simply clean up his mess and reprimand him for his bad behaviour. Taking a human, however, running with her, leaving family members behind to search for her, keeping her without changing her... No. The penalties for such a thing are much greater.

They'd have his head, or at the very least his servitude, not to mention what they would do to Isabella.

No human is allowed to live with the knowledge Edward has given her.

Then there are the legalities of travel. Edward needs time and resources to get Isabella forged identification and passports so he can take her where he will without concern of her being tracked. More than that, he needs time to convince her that her life is with him now. Dragging a reluctant human through airport security and outside of the country she belongs in, isn't something Edward relishes. Especially not now that he's seen his little human is willing to run from him.

Then there is his former family, hot on his proverbial tail, already meddling and interfering, prepared to pester him into insanity.

His jaw clenches as he paces outside the washroom doors, infuriated at being banished and even more infuriated at the latitude he gives this slip of a human girl. A few unshed tears, a trembling chin, and suddenly he's gallant? Ridiculous. Her precious privacy is a farce anyway. He can hear every move she makes, count and note her every respiration and heartbeat. The sound of her making water rang as true to him here as it would if he were by her side, where he should be. Her muttered comment about his penchant for breaking locks did make him smile, though...but no matter and no more.

He has no choice but to take her back to Forks. As he listens to her heart racing and the sound of running water as she washes her hands, Edward smiles, relaxing somewhat. Regardless of where he takes her, it's time his beautiful little lamb fully understands her fate. Her life is no longer her own, and in time, she will be his completely, body, soul and lovely crimson-wet heart.

. . . . . .

The heat and sticky humidity feels like a brutal weight on Jake's shoulders as he exits his air conditioned car. The grass blades under his feet are stiff and dry, baked yellow and brown by an unfamiliar and unrelenting amount of sun. It shimmers off the asphalt, and even the weeds in the cracks of the gutters bow their heads in misery.

He takes the steps leading up to Jess's house two at a time and bangs on the door with a heavy fist, the painted surface feeling like a lit stove top. Jake listens and waits. He knows she's home. Her car is in the driveway and according to the time, that makes Bella a full-fledged liar. No way could she be meeting Jess for dinner. Not that he hadn't already figured that out with a few quick phone calls.

He bangs again, scowling. "Jess, I know you're home. Open the damn door." His voice is loud, drawing the attention of a neighbour—a busy-body old lady who pokes her nose out from the adjoining condo. She looks at him with alarm and then hurries back in when she spots his less than friendly expression.

Finally Jess opens the door. She's dressed in skimpy, denim cut-off shorts and a skin tight tank-top that displays boobs he's pretty sure are fake. They aren't outrageous, but she sure as shit didn't have those kinds of assets a year ago, so either she's had an epic growth spurt or invested in some silicone. She has her hair wrapped in something that looks like a plastic bag. The smell of chemicals is strong, hitting him like a punch, more potent because of the stagnant heat. He curls his mouth in a grimace and glares at her. He knew she was a fake blonde.

Her glare is equally as angry. "Why are you here banging on my door like a maniac, Jake?"

"Don't act like you don't know," he barks back. "Damn it, Jess, I've been calling you all day."

She rolls her eyes and walks away, leaving the door open so he can follow at least. The air inside is icy in comparison to the outside. Jess obviously isn't a fan of keeping her air conditioning at a reasonable temperature to help cut the strain on the electric company. Jake follows her down a short hallway and into a cluttered, messy kitchen. He pushes aside a shopping bag full of frilly, lacy shit and leans against the small island counter.

"Where is Bella? And don't lie to me, Jess," he cuts her off as her mouth opens, no doubt to spout off something snarky or misleading. "I lent her the truck, and she told me she was meeting you for dinner in Port Angeles, yet here you are." He waves a hand at her. "Obviously you aren't meeting anyone with that gunk on your hair, so what gives and where the hell is she?"

"What makes you think I know?" she snaps.

"Are you saying you don't?"

Sighing, Jess sits down on a chair at the small kitchen table. She rubs a hand over her face and looks at her watch, probably trying to keep track of time so she doesn't fry her hair.

Little late for that, he thinks unkindly.

"Look, Jake, despite what you think, I'm not Bella's personal keeper."

"So you weren't supposed to meet her for dinner?"

Jake can tell he's caught her off guard, and a guilty look flickers over her pursed, annoyed expression.

"I didn't say that," she snaps.

"Well?"

She looks around the room, anywhere but at him, her posture angrily defensive and stiff like she's put out by being grilled. Except her inability to meet his gaze is telling. She's nervous.

"We...were going to meet for dinner. But...I...cancelled. I have a...headache, so..." She picks at her nails, flaking bright harlot red nail polish all over her fake tan legs.

"You're lying to me, Jess." He steps closer, crowding her in the chair with nowhere to go. He talks quietly, but that doesn't make the tone any less harsh. "You might think you're doing her favours, but with Mike Newton out there..."

"So that's true?" she cuts in, looking at him, her eyes sparking in interest. "Mike really was stalking her or some shit?"

Jake frowns down at her. "She didn't tell you?"

Jess shakes her head, lips pursing in new annoyance. "Bella's been weird as hell lately. Distant. I heard it from Ben who heard it from someone else. I tried to ask Bella about it this morning when she called, but she just blew me off."

Seeing a new in—Jess might be loyal but above that she's vain and self-centered—Jake presses his advantage.

"Yeah, she's been doing that a lot lately."

Jess scowls. "Yeah, well, it sure as hell isn't pleasant to hear stuff like that. I mean Mike and I dated, you know?" She looks a bit lost saying that, and Jake would feel bad for her if she wasn't missing the point. Her and Mike were a couple back in high school if he remembers right, but that's ancient history and hardly anything to whine about. The fact that the creep was stalking her best friend with a single-minded sick-as-fuck obsession should be a higher priority of worry.

"And then, my so-called best friend doesn't even tell me? I have to hear about it through the grapevine?" She sniffs, not deciphering the disgusted look on his face. She looks away, her eyes glossy.

Jake smoothes out his facial muscles and nods in fake sympathy. Figuring he can catch more flies with honey, he sits down beside her.

"Is it true no one knows where Mike is?" she asks, picking at the knot holding the bag on her head while keeping her eyes downcast.

"Yeah, he's done a complete disappearing act, which is why I'm worried about Bella taking off the way she did."

Jess finally looks back at him, her emotions once again in check. "His mother called me last night, thinking I might know where he is."

"Do you?" Jake doubts she does, but remembering they once dated, he now realizes Jess might know Newton well enough to have an idea where he might be hiding out.

"No," she answers, her eyes wide and honest. "God, Mike and I never talk anymore. Guess that's a good thing," she adds under her breath.

"Look, Jess. I know you and I have never been great friends, but Bella's safety is more important than any shit between us. If you know anything, anything at all, about where she is or what is going on with her, tell me, please."

Jess exhales softly and stares at him for a minute. He stares back, trying to convey with his expression that he only has Bella's best interest at heart.

"You used to be good for Bella," she says, then can't seem to stop herself from sarcastically adding. "Once upon a time." Another pause and then she stands up and gets her phone, flipping through her menu screen.

"Okay, look. I honestly don't know what's up with her, but I agree, something is. This whole last week she's been avoiding me and not returning calls or texts. When she does, she's been off and keeps saying she's just not feeling well. She's quiet, short. You know?"

He nods and she continues. "So this morning, I get a phone call bright and early waking me up. She tells me she's going out of town; that she needs to get away for a bit. I asked her where, but she wouldn't tell me. She did say you and Charlie might come asking about her and asked if I would cover for her, just for today."

"What do you mean, just for today?"

"That's just what she said, Jake. I'm quoting." She gives him an exasperated look, and he nods for her to keep going.

"She wanted me to say we were meeting for dinner tonight at Bella Italia. I told her fine, I would, but I wanted to know why. She just blew me off again. I tried to talk to her about Mike, but she hung up saying she'd talk to me later."

Jess hands him her phone, tapping the screen. "I texted her a half dozen times today, worried about her, this is the only time she answered." She pulls her finger away and lets Jake read.

_Can't talk now.  
I'll call when I know where I'm going.  
Sorry_.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath. Jess takes her phone back.

"I think she's been seeing someone," he states, nailing Jess with a glare that lets her know he's not messing around or willing to listen to lies. "A guy. Who is he?"

Jess snorts derisively and gets up again. A timer on the stove goes off, and he watches her pull a section of hair out of the bag, examine it, then tuck it back in, resetting the timer for additional five minutes.

"Like I know?"

"Jess, don't screw around," Jake warns, but she just snorts again.

"Jake, are you forgetting? I thought it was you! The hickey, the whole weird, sick, hangover thing she had going last Saturday? I thought you and her hooked back up."

Standing, Jake curses viciously. "Why is this fucking guy such a mystery? She's seen with some guy, you think she hooked up with someone, and suddenly everything goes to shit, including Bella's attitude. That can't be a goddamn coincidence."

Jess shakes her head at him, her demeanour wary now in the face of his anger. "I personally never saw her with anyone. I just got suspicious when she was acting weird. I asked her, but she let me think it was you."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't fucking me."

Silence falls between them, and Jake realizes Jess knows nothing helpful. She's only confirmed what he already knew but didn't want to admit. Bella's on the run. Question is, _from_ who, or _with_ who?

"Okay, Jess. Thanks, for talking to me and not lying. If you hear from her, will you call me, please?"

She scrapes her teeth over her lip, a Bella reminiscent move that hits his sore guts in all the wrong ways.

"Jess?"

"Okay," she answers, back to being brusque and irritated. "But only because I'm worried about her, too. As soon as she comes home, you are back to being on my shit-list, Black."

He can't help but grin a little and nod. "Fine, Stanley."

As he heads for the door, he thinks about Newton again and turns back, taking her off guard as she nearly collides with him from behind.

He catches her and keeps her steady, weathering her bitchy glare. "Jess, about Newton. He's dangerously fucked up, okay? If you hear from him, call me or Embry or Chief Swan right away. Do you have my cell number?"

She nods, looking put out but hopefully smart enough to do what he asks.

"Good." He pauses for a minute, studying her. "You don't have any clue where he might take off to, do you? Any friends outside of town or someone you might know of that he keeps in touch with?"

She thinks about if for a second, shrugging as if to say no, when suddenly her expression changes, becomes speculative.

"There is this guy. His name is James. I don't know his last name, but he comes into town every few months and always stays at Mike's. Ben says he runs drugs and that Mike has been known to buy from him from time to time. Mike likes to brag he can get anything anyone could ever want from James."

Jake ingests this new information with interest. Drugs around Forks is a small-time business. Quil has been known to supply pot, but other than that, Jake hasn't encountered much, and Quil grows his own product in an abandoned shed on the outskirts of the reservation.

Still, Quil might know this James.

"Anyone else?"

Jess nods. "James hangs out with a guy named Laurent. Scary dude. His eyes are always red, and he has these dirty dreads and a bad attitude. I don't know their last names, and honestly, I've only ever met them a few times at Twilight Tavern when Mike was hanging out with them." She readjusts the plastic on her hair, frowning as she thinks. "James had a girlfriend the last time he was here, too. Red head, pretty but scary, too. Um...I think her name was...Vanessa or Valerie...No wait, Victoria, that's it. Total skank."

Jake rubs at the new tension in the back of his neck, his mind spinning. "What does James look like?"

"Medium height. Scruffy, dirty-blond hair he wears in a ponytail. Good looking, but a little intense."

Jake compares that to the description Quil gave him of the guy he saw Bella with at the Twilight Tavern and realizes they don't match. The guy Quil saw was clean cut, well-dressed, tall with darker hair. He feels a little relief at that. Bella getting caught up with a drug dealer would be bad news indeed.

And shit is bad enough as it is.

He gives Jess a last nod, thanking her and heading out with one last warning about calling him if she hears from Bella. He crams his long legs back in his vintage Rabbit and checks his messages again.

One missed call, one voice message.

Billy.

Fuck.

He listens to the message and growls a rich line of expletives under his breath as his father demands to see him—now. Because Jake doesn't have enough to worry about, now he has to go see his old man and deal with more shit.

Wonderful.

Guess he can kill two birds with one stone, though. The James information sounds like something he should follow up on, and he knows just who to ask. If someone is selling drugs in this area, Quil will know.

He probably won't be too eager to impart the information, but Jake can be persuasive when he sets his mind to it.

He plans on being very persuasive.

. . . . . .


	15. Verleiding

**A/N **Thanks to all of you who reviewed last chapter. I wasn't able to reply to many of you but I read and cherish every comment.

Huge thanks as always to team Prey. My beta Saritadreaming and pre-readers Popola and RubyLou are the best of the best! Special thanks to DoobaWrites who also pre-read. This chapter is a thousand times better because of all of you. xo

I have a tendency to tweak at the last minute. Any mistakes are all mine.

To Amy and Jo, my sweet fairytale sisters who hold my hand through everything I write, thank you. _Give me a blank canvas, and I'll paint you a story..._

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

**. . . . . .**

_I've lost all control..._

Chapter 15

**Verleiding**

. . . . . .

Bella leaves the rest stop bathroom and finds Edward waiting. Not that she expected different. Her hands shake. She stuffs them in the back pockets of her jeans to hide the weakness she doesn't want him to capitalize on. The position pushes her chest forward, making her feel open and vulnerable. Quickly, she switches to crossing her arms over her body. The action is familiar, only this time there is no crushing empty ache to cradle. Just anxiety and that odd excitement she doesn't want to feel.

Edward turns and holds out his hand to her. She wants to deny him, but her arms uncross and her hand is in his before she can stop herself.

She glances around quickly, looking for what she doesn't know. Escape? Help? Comfort?

Doesn't anyone see how messed up this is? Doesn't anyone notice he isn't normal?

Does she really want anyone to notice?

Edward tugs her forward, smirking. He raises her hand to his mouth and kisses the back of her palm. The touch of his mouth is cool and gentle.

Always such a contradiction, she thinks, as the action conveys tenderness and affection while his motives remain shadowy and suspect.

What does he really want from her?

"Have you eaten today, Isabella?"

"No." It's pointless to lie, she knows.

"Come then. Let's get you fed."

_Yes. Mustn't let the plaything starve_, she thinks snidely. Then he puts his arm around her waist and asks her what she wants, guiding her forward, encouraging her to choose whatever she likes, making her feel like he actually cares, that the idea of her being hungry for even a second longer is disagreeable and unpleasant.

She chooses a simple vegetable soup from the small non-chain coffee shop, not surprised when the teenager working the counter ignores her completely in favour of staring at Edward with wide eyes. Edward seems oblivious to the girls near drooling and pays before Bella can get her wallet out. He scowls at her attempt, like he's personally affronted by her desire to pay for her own meal. It reminds her of the money in her bank account, the catalyst for running. Instead of making her more determined to pay for herself, it defeats her. He is a force she cannot stop.

He leads her to a table and places the tray in front of her when she sits. She stares at the food, hungry and not. Her stomach is in knots.

Again, he throws her off by reaching out and opening her cracker package, placing the straw in her coke, the spoon in her bowl. The actions seem caring, though she supposes they could just as easily be condescending.

He examines his fingers, brushing off stray clinging cracker crumbs the way one would brush off dirt. "Eat, Isabella. You're pale, and this has been a strenuous day. You need the nourishment."

"My stomach hurts." She hates that she sounds child-like and small. She hates even more that she _feels_ child-like and small. He's stripping away her independence, piece by piece.

He watches her quietly. Yet another surprise. She expects him to demand and order, at the very least to scoff. Instead, he nods. Turning his head, he looks out the wall of windows.

"There are tables outside. Would you prefer to eat out there, in the air and sun, away from others?"

Bella follows his line of sight, seeing the small outdoor patio he refers to. A cluster of umbrella covered tables sits vacant, other travellers choosing the air-conditioned interior over the heat. She wonders if he knows how much she hates crowds and that she's cold and feeling claustrophobic. She wonders even more that he's even trying to accommodate her at all.

At her nod of agreement, Edward gathers her tray and stands, holding out his hand, an exact repeat of his previous action. She takes it, this time after only a short hesitation, and allows herself to be led outside. Not that she has a choice.

The little tables are surprisingly clean, and Edward takes her to the one at the farthest end, away from the windows and the parking lot and probably from any prying eyes. A small green space is situated directly to her right with a little tree and a bench holding a memorial plaque she can't read, worn as it is from weather and years. A few old planters hold flowers, wilting and suffering in the sun. She wants to water them, but she only has a cola.

Edward pushes the tray closer to her. "Isabella, eat. Your stomach will feel better once it has some food in it."

Despite the knee-jerk reaction that makes her want to defy him, she knows he's right and picks up her spoon, forcing herself to take a bite. It's methodical: dip, lift, open, swallow. She tastes nothing. She stares at the poor heat-stricken flowers, trying to make sense of what is happening. Everything feels so...surreal.

When the bowl is half empty, Bella drops the spoon and looks at him. "I'm done."

He doesn't argue or demand she eat more. He's been watching her the entire time she ate, and his eyes don't shift away even now.

He gestures to the remaining food. "Would you like to take the rest with you?"

"No, thank you." So ridiculously polite, both of them. She bites down on her tongue until it hurts, wondering so many things.

His amused grin says he agrees with her thoughts about ridiculous politeness.

"Do you need the restroom again?"

Bella bristles. "No! And just...stop!"

He arches an inquisitive brow, looking cool and unruffled and so insanely good looking in his dark jeans and simple gray t-shirt. The sun catches the copper highlights in his unruly hair. He belongs in another world he's so perfect.

"What is it exactly you want me to 'stop,' Isabella?" He asks her this with a casual air, like her abrupt, slightly screechy demand was as banal as her commenting on the weather.

She attempts to lower her voice and be calmer, and she fails completely. "Stop...acting like I have choices!" she spits out. "Stop being nice! You've made it clear I have no free will, and you came all this way to, what, prove it? Prove I can't get away from you? Okay, I get it, so just...stop." She's aware she is shrill and it embarrasses her, the way she feels so out of control.

In contrast to his cool composure, she runs palms damp with sweat over the frayed hole in her washed-out, well-worn jeans, tugging uselessly at her wrinkled blouse. A tiny coffee stain sits just under the third button. A portion of the hemline is unravelling, the loose thread tickling her stomach.

She strives to sound rational, even if she feels anything but. "Just...what happens now?"

Edward leans forward, resting strong forearms well dusted with dark hair on the table. He has copper highlights there, too. They catch and refract the sunlight, like there's little sparks firing against his skin. His gaze on her is intent and feels stripping, as though he sees past everything, right to the heart of her.

"Now we go home, where you belong."

She blinks. Of all the things she was expecting, this isn't one. "Home? Like, back to Forks, home?"

"Do you have another place of residence?" His tone is dry, but those sinful lips curve up almost playfully.

Bella tries to glare. "What makes you think I won't just run again?"

"Will you?"

Turning her head away from his stare, Bella watches the wilting flowers sway in the gritty feeling breeze that reeks of hot asphalt from the parking lot. She tries again to read the memorial plaque on the bench and fails. She wonders if anyone will put a plaque on a bench for her and doubts it.

He said he'd 'decided not to kill her.' That's what he told her that night in the Twilight Tavern when he took her back there and admitted what he was, and that he planned to keep her.

She looks back at him and something clenched tight loosens. He's never hurt her. Even now when she thinks that someone like him should be angry at her for running, he's been calm, nice even. Caring for her, seeing to her needs, sitting here with her, no threats or words of intent to harm; he's told her he is taking her home. The weird trust she has that he won't harm her, remains solid.

"I don't know," she answers truthfully. "Does it matter? You obviously have no trouble finding what you lose." It's a jibe veiled in a compliment, and he knows it.

His jaw clenches, and those strange eyes, dark orange-gold today, pierce her. She can't tell if her answer makes him angry or not, though there is a part of her that thinks he looks...tired. Like he expected her answer but was hoping for different.

What the hell does he truly want from her?

He stands, uncoiling from his seated position gracefully. A sense of lethal in the movement strips away any sense of feminine in the grace equation. It's all male, all dangerous. Rounding the table, he stands in front of her and extends his hand one more time.

"Come, my Isabella. It's time to go home."

. . . . . .

The lamb sleeps.

Edward watches her. She's curled into the passenger seat, her head turned toward him. Looking at her like this evokes an utterly alien feeling of tenderness, and he reaches out to gently sweep away the tendrils of hair that have fallen against her cheek.

She doesn't stir. Her little adventure has exhausted her. He smiles, thinking of how hard she tries to convince herself she does not want him. His stubborn, beautiful, fragile Isabella-lamb. That she sleeps in the presence of a monster is proof that her anxieties have no real depth. She is drawn to him, and he senses she needs him.

His proprietary protective desires war with his solitary nature. She is his mate, but he has no true idea what that means for him or for her.

Isabella sighs at his lingering touch, the gentle exhale ending in soft iteration of his name as his fingertips trail over the impossibly soft skin along her jaw to her shell-like ear.

"_Edward...Edward..."_

He turns back to face the highway, weaving in and out of traffic with barely attentive ease. Engaging Bluetooth and speaker phone, Edward places a call, setting the volume so low that Bella will not hear a word spoken by the person he contacts. He pitches his voice low as well, keeping it to the cadence of the music playing quietly.

"Mr. Masen."

Edward doesn't bother with trite greetings. "Is it done?"

Jenks is well trained. He answers swiftly, deleting any extraneous information. He was given instruction by Edward only an hour ago, yet he's accomplished what was asked of him. Jenks is nothing if not efficient.

"Yes, Mr. Masen. A police report for a stolen 1953 Chevrolet truck, titled to one Isabella Swan, purchased by one Jacob Black, has been established as of 11:08 a.m. today. You were correct in assuming Lieutenant Samuels of the Seattle police department would be helpful."

Of course he was. Weak men with dark inclinations often are helpful. Edward has a slew of such men under his thumb. In the case of Lieutenant Samuels, a debt owed from a decade past when Edward saved him from having both his kneecaps shattered at the hands of less-than-happy loan sharks, ensured several favors. This is the first he's called upon. Edward is glad to see he left enough of an impact to secure such...loyalty. Fear and gratitude are great motivators. It helps that Edward continues to line the aging lieutenants pockets whenever asked, or begged as the case so often is.

Jenks continues. "As per your request, a copy of that report has been faxed to one Charlie Swan, Police Chief of Forks, Washington, and texts from the cell phone number you provided have been sent to one Jacob Black, one Charlie Swan, and one Jessica Stanley. Content as you requested: '_Hey_—inserted here were the individual names of the recipients—_everything is fine. I'm going to stay with a friend in Seattle for a few days. I'm sorry I left so quickly_. _I just really need the time away. I'll call you soon. Bella."_

Edward replies without praise or comment on what Jenks has accomplished. "Did you insure the copy of the police report faxed to Chief Swan contained Samuels contact information and a personal note indicating Isabella Swan asked the copy be sent to her father specifically?"

"Yes. I followed your instructions to the letter, Mr. Masen."

"And have you implemented a trace so you can track all incoming reports of a 1963 Chevrolet Truck found burning at a rest stop sixteen kilometers northwest of Seattle?"

"Yes. Currently only one report has come in fitting your description. The vehicle was found burning at the rest stop you indicated, but it was stripped of license plates and hasn't yet been identified by make or model. It most likely will not. Apparently the fire was...quite intense and witnesses are only describing it as an 'old red truck.' The damage is being described as 'extensive.'" Jenks is careful to keep his tone non-questioning. He prefers to know as little as possible, especially where Edward is concerned. Jenks' father and grandfather were likewise inclined and likewise as useful in their time.

"Is there any mention of Miss Swan or anyone fitting her description in the witness reports?"

"No. All those questioned at the time reported they were unaware of seeing anyone connected with the vehicle."

Edward isn't surprised. Most humans are remarkably unobservant. "Keep me informed of any changes, and I want to know the second Chief Swan contacts Lieutenant Samuels."

"Of course, Mr. Masen."

Edward hangs up and places Isabella's cell phone—something he took from the truck before burning it, as well as several other personal items—into his glove box. He'll need to persuade her to call her family and friends tomorrow. The steps he's taken to cover Isabella's tracks and prevent Chief Swan from being able to launch any kind of police search for his errant daughter have bought him time, but only a limited amount.

He wants endless amounts.

Soon, he cautions himself. He's begun step one of separating her from those who would try, uselessly, to keep her from him, and that is enough for now.

Step two—implement himself into her life and become an in-their-face presence for the two males that would contest his possession of Isabella.

Step three—keep what is his forever, by any means necessary.

Edward puts his foot down harder on the gas, eager to get his sleeping lamb home.

. . . . . .

Scenery passing by in a blur is a testament to the crazy-fast speed Edward drives. For the first little while after she woke, Bella white-knuckled the sides of her seat, until she realized how well he handles the car, like it's an extension of himself.

She knows now how he was able to catch up with her so fast, even if she isn't certain how he knew which way she ran.

The sun is starting to set, and the horizon is glorious. A wide swath of brilliant pink, orange, and dusky purple paints the canvas of sky, natures beautiful, un-garish version of a neon sign.

Air conditioning vents emit a soft, steady stream of cool air, and the car stereo system plays a steady stream of music quiet enough to be in the background of her thoughts. A throaty-voiced woman croons something in Spanish...something sad and melancholy, Bella thinks, despite only understanding a few words. Four years of high school Spanish, wasted.

Like so many other things in her life.

She shifts, uncomfortable despite the plush leather seat that hugs her body. Riding in this car is like riding on a cloud in comparison to riding in the truck.

The truck. How will she explain the truck to Jake? To Charlie? God, Charlie is going to kill her.

Edward has been quiet. Other than asking her if she slept well and if she needed anything after she first woke up, he's left her to her brooding thoughts. She looks over at him now, watching him drive. His hands on the wheel look strong yet elegant, his fingers long. She can't help but think about the way it feels when he touches her—so much right born from so much wrong.

She turns to look out the passenger side window, away from those eyes that see too much and understand too well all the secret things about her she's spent her life hiding and denying.

The scenery passes by in a faster blur than before as Edward presses his foot down on the gas when traffic becomes sparser.

Bella lowers her window, letting the warm air rush in and over her. She thinks about everything that's happened since Edward entered her life. Her experiences are like this car racing, like when she was a kid and she used to slide on large patches of ice in smooth-soled shoes. She can't stop, and the thrill of the wind in her face and danger of not knowing where she'll end up tastes like freedom.

But there is always an end. She just isn't certain whether she'll glide to a safe stop or crash and break into pieces.

. . . . . .

Edward turns the car onto a road Bella isn't familiar with. It's not paved, just gravel and dirt. Stones spit up and hit the undercarriage. He doesn't seem concerned with the damage those stone can cause to a car like this. One hits the passenger side window with a loud whack, making her grateful she closed it during the last hour of the drive. A tiny spider web crack appears in the glass.

Fitting, she thinks.

"Where are we going? I thought you said you were taking me home?"

"I am taking you home, Isabella." _Says the spider to the fly._ He seems amused as he glances at her. Another game where she doesn't know the rules.

The road becomes narrower, sporadic clumping of trees thickening noticeably until they are surrounded on all sides by dense forest. Around the next curve, the road ends abruptly.

Destination nowhere, she thinks. A little clutch of hysteria clamps around her throat.

"This isn't home," she tells him inanely.

He leaves the car and is around at her side instantly. It's too fast. She never saw him move. The door opens, and Edward extends his hand in what is fast becoming a habit. She refuses to take it this time, turning her head instead to study the solid expanse of Olympic Peninsula forest. The smell of Red Cedar and Douglas Fir is strong in the heat that quickly leaches away the cooler air from the inside of the car.

"This isn't home," she repeats.

"I did say I was taking you home, Isabella. But you seem to be under the misconception I meant _your_ home."

Bella drags her gaze from the dark copse of woodland and focuses on him, a new fission of unease creeping up her spine. This idea that he isn't taking her to her actual house, but somewhere else entirely, is a new, more realistic fear than any fear she's had that he might hurt her.

"Where are you taking me if not my home?" She's surprised her voice doesn't quiver.

"I'm taking you to mine." He delivers this statement with another of those dark amused smiles. He enjoys playing with her, keeping her on edge.

"Here?" she asks incredulously.

"This is the...scenic route," he replies. "But yes, essentially, I live here."

She turns back to the woods, impenetrable and forbidding in the slow leaching away of daylight. She thinks, yes, he would live someplace like this. Curiously, she finds herself unlatching her seatbelt and getting out of the car. She wants to know where he lives, but she still ignores his hand.

He frowns at that, yet makes no comment or move to force her. Again she's thrown by the look in his eyes, as though her refusal to let him hold her hand wounds him somehow.

She has to be wrong about that.

Edward gestures to a path she can now see clearly outside of the limited vision the car windshield provided. "Shall we?" he asks, those odd, polite, out of date manners showing.

How old is he? she wonders.

Stepping onto the dirt path, she's surprised it's as clear as it is, though it will still be easy enough for her uncoordinated self to trip and fall. Maybe refusing to take his hand wasn't the wisest move...

"How far is it?"

"Not far. There's a meadow ahead. It's quite lovely. I thought you might like to see it."

Staring at him yields no answer to such a bizarre statement. He keeps leaving her scrambling, not understanding him at all. Her mind screams why, but she only pushes her feet forward.

It's cooler in the canopy of trees, and there is still enough light she can see the safety hazards, helping her avoid the overgrown tree roots that thrust up from the ground, mingling with the pieces of deadfall that litter the way. He stays behind her, but she's no less aware of his presence for the lack of being able to see him.

A few feet more are taken in silence, then suddenly she steps into an unexpected clearing and stops in her tracks.

'A meadow,' he said, though it's nothing so simple or common. It's small, but it's as though she's stepped into a fairytale or alternate universe. Lush and green and alive, the little clearing is coated in the dwindling sunlight. Where the light falls at the edges through tree branches, it looks like golden translucent rainfall. Low-growing wildflowers carpet the ground, and everywhere she looks is...storybook.

"It's beautiful here," she says, and that's an understatement. This is the forever home of the Velveteen Rabbit and the place Pinocchio came to play as a 'real boy.' This is the Garden of Eden before the apple and the loss of innocence. This is something magical and light, and into it steps a creature who belongs somewhere else entirely.

"It is, isn't it?" He sounds so casual, like he brought her someplace ordinary. And yet when she watches him, he's watching her, too, and he looks...hungry for her approval?

He studies her so closely it's as though he's trying to interpret every subtle nuance of her facial expressions to know her mind. It's disconcerting and weirdly flattering. More dichotomy, both hers and his. Their angles never quite seem to fit together...well, not totally true. She can think of ways their angles do fit together quite easily.

Before she can blush or enjoy the way her skin feels at that thought, Edward interrupts. "I found this place...decades ago. It's exactly the same, though it changes with the seasons, of course. It's lovely here, even in the winter."

Her mind struggles to keep up, to absorb. 'Decades ago?' And why the hesitation? Did he live here once before?

Again she finds herself wondering how old he is. More than that, she wonders if she'll ever know his secrets.

Does she want to know them?

She glances back out at the meadow. The sun disappears behind a cloud. One that's dark and ominously swelled with oncoming rain. The sky is turning gray, and the scene seems to change with the fading light—more the Garden of Eden _after_ the apple.

Rain is coming. Bella can smell it and feel it in the moisture laden air. It's almost a relief. Rain she knows. She's lived under near constant cloud-cover and endless drizzle for years.

Edward steps deeper into the meadow. With his back to her, she notices tension in the rigidity of his spine, though he's no less graceful as he walks nearly to the center.

"It's twilight," he points out quietly, though whether it's to her or himself she can't tell. He turns abruptly. "My favorite time of day." He looks darker in this light, his eyes less copper and more...red. A reflection of his mood?

She looks away but feels his stare continue. It's like a touch, stroking her and breaking her down as she feigns interest in the trees and grass and a flying insect that drones by.

"Is there a point to bringing me here?" she asks, unable to maintain the silence and the weight of his eyes on her.

"Do I need a reason, Isabella?"

She shrugs. "You usually have one, don't you?"

He laughs. "Careful, little lamb. You are perilously closer and closer to asking 'why.'"

"I just want to go home." She ignores the way he's stalking closer. From the corner of her eye, the way he moves is predatory. He's definitely playing with her—cat and mouse, lamb and lion.

He no longer seems as amenable as he once was. His gaze bores into her as he circles.

"Perhaps you won't ask me why, but I have no such compunction." He moves in front of her and stops. Despite herself she's drawn to look, and yes, his pupils are redder, darker, dangerous. "Why did you run from me, Isabella?"

Her heart stutters, the memories from this morning, a time that feels a lifetime away instead of hours, flashes through her thoughts.

She shakes her head, looking away from those mesmerizing eyes. _The money_, she thinks, but does not say, because that's not the whole of why she ran. She wonders for a brief second now if she didn't overreact, then her spine finds its substance. No, she didn't. He had no right. He_ has_ no right. She keeps forgetting that in his presence. He keeps making her forget...everything, except what it feels like to be around him.

His nostrils flare, and he exhales with a long breath that brushes her skin. She has to fight to hold onto her anger, her knowledge that she is right and he is wrong, before he runs her over, before she succumbs to everything he wants. Because, oh, it would be so easy to do exactly that...

He waits. She gives him only silence, surprised to realize it's a weapon of sorts. She can see he's reacting, getting angry at her refusal to respond. Her silence gives her some power—or at least the illusion of it.

She won't give in. She doesn't have to explain. He has to know why she ran. He has to understand how wrong all this is, doesn't he?

Edward exhales again, and his breath washes over her appealingly. She wants to turn into the source of that air so she can breathe it deeper. He's such a craving, such a clawing, aching, wanting need.

"Shall we play a game of guess, Isabella?" he asks with feigned politeness. "Let me see if I can read your mind _without_ actually reading your mind, shall we, my silent, secretive beauty?"

He steps closer, invading her space. The first few drops of rain begin to fall.

"Why don't we start with twenty questions?" He doesn't give her a chance to answer. For the first time since he found her today, she senses true danger in his mood. He's toying with her, but she feels certain there is a core of something more than plain frustration at her refusal to answer beneath the game he plays.

The rain falls a little faster in soft, fat drops that hit her skin and clothes in tiny splotches.

The questions begin, rapid fire and deliberately wounding.

"When you woke up this morning, what did you wake up to, Isabella? An empty house in need of repair? An empty life with no spark or excitement? An empty bed? Did you ache for me? Miss me after the night we shared? Were you hurt that I wasn't there with you? That I didn't wake you with soft kisses and touches? That I didn't fuck you until you screamed your pleasure into the start of a new day? Did you worry I didn't _respect _you after getting what I wanted?"

Cool fingers are suddenly on her pulse which ratchets up with the contact that feels too good for the intent behind it. Edward's fact-finding mission continues, and her traitorous heart beats out the truth in arterial Morse code.

Desire, want, and _yes, yes, yes_, she woke to all of that and more!

"Did you take your morning shower and think of my touch, Isabella?" he continues, voice low and velvet, cajoling and mocking in turns. "I think you did. Actually, I know you did." His lips twist in a smirk. "But humor me, Isabella. What did you think of _specifically_? Me, stroking your body? Taking you? My hands all over every delectable inch of your skin? My mouth between your sweet-skinned thighs? My cock so deep inside you, you could hardly bear it? Did you attempt to ease yourself, little beauty? Did you make yourself come?"

He takes the exact hand she used to do the act he accuses her of and lifts it, running his nose over her fingers with a low growl that makes the baby fine hair on her nape rise, a little fear and a whole lot of desire. Every word out of his mouth ignites embarrassment and heated yearning.

"Mmm... Yes, you did. I can smell your lingering sweetness," he confirms, taking secrets and airing them when he has no right. "You won't do that again, Isabella. Your body belongs solely to me. When you come from now on, it will be with me and only me."

He laughs at her glower and stuttering attempt to deny him that has no words, only starts and stops of sound formed by shock at his nerve. Always he wants to take more than she can give, and how wrong is it that she wishes, yearns to be able to bend to his will?

"Don't fret, sweetling," he mocks. "Your pleasure is mine. I will never deny you or leave you wanting. I find I enjoy pleasing you, very much. I think you know this.

And yet," he muses out loud, "you ran from me. _Why_?" He bites off the word, clipped and hard, angry sounding, almost bitter.

Twenty questions.

She answers all of them with more silence, her heart in her throat, throbbing with blood and life and cracking, crumbling denial.

"Tell me, Isabella."

She can't answer. She won't. She can barely breathe. He's so close he's almost touching her. She aches for him to touch her, wants it as badly as her straining lungs want the air she can't seem to find enough of. She wants to beg him to end her pain however he wants to end it.

_Take me, make me yours..._

_Touch me, love me, want me enough to keep me..._

Her needful body is a traitor to her head that overfills with warnings and useless, frustrated, self-preserving anger. She tries to turn away and move to garner some space between them. With that uncanny speed, Edward catches her wrist. The jolt of this touch after so much repressed longing makes her lose her footing on the now slippery undergrowth she stands on. He lets her go, but she's prone on her knees before him, more vulnerable than ever.

"You frighten me," she cries up at him, half accusation, half plea for understanding. Her hands clench in the longer grass and dig into damp earth, the words forced out between her panting breaths. It's the only truth she can bring herself to admit—for, oh, he does frighten her. Knowing he won't harm her can't stop this fear because she knows there's a hell of a lot more at stake than her physical well being. It's so much more complex. That she's just as terrified of herself and this wicked-raw need to have him, keep him, _be consumed by him_, goes unsaid but not unnoticed.

The skies open up and rain pours down. They're both drenched in an instant. It feels good, even where it hits her exposed skin, stinging like the bite of hundreds of tiny needles, grounding her to the present where she senses she needs to stay focused.

Edward gives her that sardonic smile, nostrils flaring as he bends down to her, skimming his nose over her neck and rain drenched collarbones. He lifts his head, eyes black as night and rimmed in red sin, mordant grin growing.

"Oh, deceitful, little beauty. Pretty little bewitching lamb, uttering such sweetly vulgar half truths." He crouches in front of her, then places his arms around the sides of her body, still not touching but looming now, forcing her to lean back farther until rain water latches to her eye lashes and blink-blink-_blinking_ he's all she can see, feel, smell, taste.

More of his breath in her face, more of his unbearable strip-her-bare truths falling from his mouth. "I hear your heart racing and smell the needing you can't control. I think you fear how much you want me to consume you more than you fear me and what I am, Isabella." His accusation is everything she's fighting.

He keeps staring at her, watching as he rips down all her walls, exposing her vulnerable, tender secrets like entrails.

"Shall I tell you why you ran? Shall I tell you the tale you're holding inside that beguiling, sexy little mind, on the tip of that sweetly pink liar's tongue?"

Bella pants, struggling for air as her lungs feel tight. He's too close, too far, too much, and yet everything she's ever ached for. She wants him silenced. She wants to hear every silky word that comes out of his mouth.

It doesn't matter what she wants, not to him, and even that is a kind of freedom.

"I think you stepped away from your shower and the emptiness of your self-induced pleasure to break your fast alone in your crumbling little house. I think you thought about your crumbling little life while you attempted to pay bills that amount to a sum you don't have in your paltry little bank account. I think you found my gift.

Am I right, Isabella? Is that why you ran? Is silly human pride worth my wrath, little lamb?"

His anger is fully unleashed now. Under all his cool-toned mocking she senses his rage, and beneath that rage she also senses its source—pain and loneliness, darker mimics of the fuel that has fed every empty part of her the entirety of her life. Her anger rushes out to meet his, even as the sane part of her mind cries caution: _danger, danger, danger_.

She pushes her elbows into the dirt and lurches upwards, wet sneakers grinding, sliding into wet grass as she seeks purchase to stand and get out from under him. She's had enough, but still she's surprised when he moves back. She half expects to crash into his immovable body, to have him force her back into her submissive position.

She slides and slips, her ankle taking the brunt of a sharp, twisting loss of balance. The pain sinks with vicious teeth. Surprisingly, it settles her and makes her want to fight back.

"Don't!" she yells straight into his face. "Don't act like you know _me_! You don't know me. Do you think I'll fall on my knees for you and stay there? Do you think you can take over my life and I'll _thank_ you for it?" She swipes rain soaked hair from her face with a mud-dirty hand, fingers shaking with a sweet surge of adrenaline. He could kill her, she thinks, so easily, and yet...

"My life may be shit, but it is my life. _Mine_! I choose. I decide who's in it, and what I will and will not do and how I'll do it. Maybe it's nothing to you," she shouts, swallowing sweet rain with all her bitter regrets and too few life successes, jabbing a wet, dripping finger into his equally wet shirt-covered chest. "Maybe it's a flash in the pan and nothing at all to someone or something like _you_, but it...is...mine!"

She steps back when a violent slash of lightning highlights his now black eyes and white skin, everything about him unnatural in that harsh flickering light. Unnatural and so terrifyingly beautiful. Her heart pounds as the dusk settles back around them. It won't be long till night comes in earnest. She shivers, cold now as her anger fades. She licks water from her lips and shakes her head. He watches her, head cocked slightly to the left, expressionless and too still.

"I don't need or want your money," she says, quieter now. So quiet in fact, the downpour nailing the trees, leaves, and ground drowns her out. She continues anyway. He doesn't move or react, but she knows he hears her. She wants to tell him she doesn't need or want him either, but the lies trip up her tongue. Instead, she states, "You can force me to go with you, you can keep me like a pet and not let me go. You can even kill me, but you can't own me, Edward. I won't be owned."

He's quiet, watching her, his face a mask. And then he blinks. Just once, but it's enough for her to see the small flash of vulnerability the action conveys. He has the most intense stare, his unblinking gaze stripping away every barrier she tries to erect. For him to falter in that...

He abruptly steps closer, movements too fast making her reactionary step back seem comically delayed.

"Such defiance," he replies, his tone almost snide. She wonders if she's pushed him too far. She wonders if he's beyond reason or understanding with the things he does.

"I have a life," she repeats, wondering if it's all futile.

"You have a past," he corrects, cutting her off. "It has no bearing on your future."

"My future?" She laughs, her turn to be snide. "What future? You're going to use me up and discard the leftovers. If there's even anything left over when you're done."

"You're wrong," he snaps. "I _keep_ what is mine. I take _care_ of what is mine. Discarding you isn't an option. It never was."

He catches her off-guard. Like his so often confusing actions, these words allude to more complex desires than simply that of a predator playing with his prey.

"I won't be owned," she repeats, stupidly. He says things like that and she can't form her arguments clearly or intelligently. Her mind gets so scrambled in his presence it trips her up, making her as clumsy in conveying her thoughts as she is in everyday actions.

His lips curl wryly, like he knows. He must, the way he constantly takes advantage.

"Too late, little beauty." He leans closer, fogging her thoughts even more with his closer proximity and the delicious sweetness of his breath. "You are forever mine, don't doubt it." He runs the back of one finger down along her jaw then pulls away, backing up slightly.

Despite the space he's given her, Bella still feels the lingering effects of his touch. Worse, she feels its loss like a craving ache prickling under her flesh. He's in her blood and bones, way down deep in her marrow. She's fighting on principle now.

He seems to know it.

"Why fight me, Isabella?" He's back in her space, one hand cupping her jaw, forcing her gaze up to meet his. The rain makes her blink, and he moves closer, like he's sheltering her. Those dark eyes seem to soften, but that must be a trick of the fading light. He's so close. Just one more tiny inch and his mouth would be on hers. She can taste his breath. "You already know the pleasures I can give you. Imagine a lifetime of them. Imagine the strife-free existence, the freedom being mine can give you."

"I won't be your pampered house pet." She wants to sound strong. Instead she sounds breathless. She means it with every part of her, though. She will not be owned by him. She will not give up and give in, no matter how much a weaker part of her craves it. There's so much more at stake than just her flesh and blood and future. Her soul won't survive this deal with this devil; she knows it. If she offers up her independence, the one part of her that no one has ever managed to take from her, what will she have?

And still, he's backing her up, making her move. She can't help notice how effortless it feels to step with him. It requires no conscious thought. He moves, she moves. It's like breathing.

Ten steps. Twenty, thirty. At the edge of the meadow, her back meets a tree. The thick sheltering limbs create a canopy that protects them from the worst of the rain.

"I crave every part of you, Isabella. I won't be denied. You try my patience, you defy me, you fight and fight but it won't change what you are," he growls. His mouth is so close to hers she feels the way his lips shape the words. "Mine, you are mine. I know you feel it."

Large, cool hands cup her burning face. She's boiling alive with her contradictory wants. "Look at me," he demands, voice rough. "Feel me, feel the way your body needs my touch, and tell me you can live without it now that you know what it's like!" His hands move down her neck to her shoulders. Just that touch ignites sparks that make her want more. More touch, more him, just more. Her nipples tighten to painful points, scraping against the weight of her wet bra and shirt, and it feels so good, but not as good as his touch.

As if he reads her mind, her blouse is suddenly open, her bra down under her breasts, lifting them up like an offering. Edward growls, the sound as needy as she feels.

"Say you don't want this and damn yourself as a liar, Isabella, for I can smell you, feel you."

His hips push into hers and his mouth presses over her panting lips. His tongue touches them and they part, opening in an eager gasp. He glides in and over and takes her sanity, leaving his rich taste as payment. Her hands reach up of their own volition and curl into the wet hair at the back of his head, her whole body arching against his, straining. The push and pull dance they've done all day can't be maintained. She has to get closer.

She has to.

He drags his mouth away from hers with another growl, pressing those sinful lips to her jaw then her throat, right where her pulse beats so frantically. The laving of his tongue right there nearly makes her come.

Edward lifts her and her legs go around his waist like instinct. More instinct makes her grind against him as his tongue laves and licks again and again.

She feels the way he holds her, careful despite the amount of strength he uses to effortlessly take all her weight. She feels the way his one arm braces around her waist, the hold so secure she knows she will not fall. She feels the way his other arm has moved behind her back, preventing her skin and spine from being scraped raw by the rough bark of the tree.

She feels protected.

And still...

"I won't be owned," she pants, her head falling back as he pushes his hips into hers, and she pushes back hard. He's hard all over, an unmovable force, and yet he bends and angles so that the place he is the hardest presses perfectly against where she is the softest and neediest. He's as desperate as she is.

She cries out at the little explosions of hot sensation he gives her with every push of his hips, every grind of hers. He growl-hisses at her words and her refusal to submit fully, his mouth opening over her hammering pulse. She feels the two sharp points of his teeth and _God, yes, God help her_, she _wants_ him to bite her.

Edward scrapes them against her like a warning, and she cries out, past caution. She wants him in her—his teeth, his so-hard erection, all of it, all of him, in her, deep, deep in her.

_Take it_, she thinks. _Take my blood; let me be in you, too_.

As if he reads her mind, he utters one more low, lethal growl, then takes what she wants to give.

A sharp sting, a sweet tugging pull of his mouth, another thrust of his hips, perfectly angled so every press hits exactly where she needs it, and she comes, _hard_.

There is no breath to scream. She comes and comes, and through the incapacitating bliss that makes her shudder and shake, Bella feels him drink. It only makes it better, and it's so wrong and so right...

She feels his teeth pull away from her flesh at the endings of her final climax. His tongue licking the place he bit reignites her, tumbling her back into yet another release. Whimpering she clings to him, and he holds her close, mouth leaving her tingling throat, trailing kisses up to hers. The coppery sweetness on his breath should revolt her, but he growl-whispers "Yes, little beauty, keep coming for me," and it doesn't matter.

She's in him. The essence of her, the liquid that her very heart pumps through every inch of her and back to itself again and again, is _in_ him.

The last of her climax leaves her limp, and her legs slip away from his hips. Edward holds her up when her knees tremble.

"You can't own me," she says, eyes closed, heart still pounding, still fighting, still resisting. He didn't drain her; he didn't even weaken her. As long as she has life in her body, she has a chance at not losing herself.

Edward laughs quietly, the sound amused and cynical once again.

Bella starts to tremble with cold and exhaustion.

She feels him lift her, cradle her close, and carry her out of the meadow and onto a path that matches the one that led them in. Tucking her head into his neck, she lets herself be carried away. As he begins to run, she keeps her eyes closed against the dizzying blur his speed creates of the scenery.

Close to her ear, she hears him whisper. "Maybe I don't own you now, but I will, little lamb, I will.

One way, or another."

She half fears he's right, and all she can think is, _why me_?

. . . . . .


	16. Nafsu

**Prey for the Wicked  
**

**. . . . . .**

_Temptation...  
It never lets me down..._

. . . . . .

Chapter 16

**Nafsu**

. . . . . .

Jake watches the man he once believed would be his future father-in-law pace the small confines of his cluttered office. It's a feat, given the very small amount of floor space Charlie has at his disposal.

His internal clock tells him it's getting late, and his watch agrees. Time just keeps slipping on by, regardless of how much Jake wishes he could stop it or at least turn it back. The cravings for a cigarette and a stiff drink beat at him. Most of all, he wants what Charlie wants—Bella home where she goddamn well belongs.

Charlie's office is windowless. Nevertheless, Jake knows it's raining. He hears the soft patter of it against the walls and roof, and he smells it in the air that creeps under the door every time someone enters the station through the main entrance. The strange drought and sun-filled heat, so rare for this part of the state, is finally breaking.

His mind is a chaotic mess, his skin prickling with heat and energy. He's trying not to think about his earlier conversation with his dad—fucking Billy Black and his endless diatribes on Quileute responsibility. He's likewise trying very hard not to think about Leah and the way she stood watching the entire, mostly one-sided conversation. Jake knows she's invested in tribal bullshit but he didn't think she was invested to the same extent as Billy; then again, maybe he just doesn't know her that well. Their friends-with-benefits arrangement has been pretty light on the friend side and heavy on the benefits.

Regardless, it got to him, and Billy was in fine form, ranting and raving about how Jake has a responsibility to be better, to be a part of the tribe, a protector of his people. He lit into Jake in a way he hasn't in years, leaning hard with the demands and heaping on the guilt, talking how his health was bad and he wasn't getting any younger. How it was up to a Jake to lead the way for the next generation, not letting all their traditions and beliefs fade away and be forgotten.

A fucking protector! A leader? Him? Christ!

Jake shifts his shoulders restlessly, half envying Charlie the little room he has to move around. Stuck in this chair, he can only jerk his right leg up and down and tap his fingers against the metal armrests. It's a piss-poor way to relieve tension, not that he thinks pacing would help either.

The phone rings, a harsh bleating in the otherwise quiet room. Charlie snatches it up, knocking an empty Styrofoam coffee cup over in his hasty grab. It rolls to the floor and vanishes under the desk.

"Chief Swan here." The barking voice Charlie uses to greet the caller sounds rougher than normal, evidence of how tired he most likely is.

"Lieutenant Samuels, yes, thanks for returning my call." Charlie turns on speaker phone, allowing Jake to hear both sides of the conversation.

"Sure, Chief. Not a problem. What can I do for you?" Samuels sounds like one of those slick, suit-wearing, sit-behind-a-desk type of cops. He probably has a paunch and a stain from lunch on his cheap synthetic tie.

"I just have a few more questions for you regarding my daughter's police report." In contrast, Charlie sounds every bit the tough, hard-ass, not-afraid-to-get-his-hands-dirty type of cop _he_ is.

"Well, I'm not sure how much more help I can be. I've already faxed you a full copy of the report, as per your daughter's request. You know what I know." Samuels is smooth and deflecting. Jake wishes they were face-to-face. It's hard to judge a man's worth or integrity over the phone.

Charlie sits down behind his desk, his battered ergonomic chair giving a slight squeak as his weight settles. He leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. Ignoring the deflecting, he launches straight into interrogation.

"It says here on the report you took the call yourself. Is that right?"

Samuels clears his throat. "Correct."

"Forgive me, Lieutenant, but isn't responding to complaints about a stolen vehicle a little below your pay grade?"

Silence fills the line, then, "Well...I suppose, but I happened to be in the area when your daughter's call came in. Seemed a little unnecessary to send someone else when I was so close." Samuels sounds wary.

"Right, right," Charlie answers quick enough, though his brow is furrowed like he's not entirely convinced. "The report also says the driver of the vehicle, my daughter, showed no visible signs of being outwardly upset about the theft."

Again a moment of odd silence follows the question. When Samuels finally delivers an answer, he sounds a bit terse. "That is also correct."

Charlie leans forward, staring hard at the phone, like he wishes Samuels could be there in front of him the same as Jake, wanting a person to evaluate and not just a voice. "Forgive me, Lieutenant, but I know my daughter and that sounds...unlikely as hell."

"I'm not in the habit of dissecting someone's mood in the wake of a simple stolen vehicle incident, Chief Swan." Samuel's tone speaks volumes about his disdain for even being asked to. "The paperwork asked for a statement regarding the complainant's attitude and actions. I provided an appropriate answer. I'm sure she was upset—who wouldn't be—but there was no emotional outburst or sign of instability to warrant putting more than what I did on official forms. I'm a cop, not a social worker, as I'm sure you're aware. I deal with dry facts, not amateur psychology."

It's Charlie's turn to give a slow response, letting silence fill the line. He taps his fingers on his desk, then curls his hand in a fist and knocks it once on the desk, hard. "Let's cut to the chase, Samuels. My daughter is missing. We don't know where she is. You seem to be the last person we know of to speak with her. Anything you can tell me about her mood or her demeanour could be helpful."

Samuels clears his throat, again. Jake wonders if it's a nervous tic. Over the line, the sound of papers being roughly shuffled sounds a little like static.

"Not sure what more I can tell you. She reported her vehicle stolen. I took down the details..."

"Did you ask her if she had alternate means of transportation? Find out how she was planning to get home? Where she was going?"

"No, and honestly, I can't see why you think I would."

Charlie's voice hardens. "She's twenty-three years old, and she was miles from her home town, stranded in some rest stop in the middle of nowhere! It may not be in the job description, but it is a common courtesy."

"Look, Chief Swan, I can understand you being upset if your daughter hasn't been in touch. I've got kids, too. All I can tell you, though, is she didn't indicate she needed anything to me. I took the report, and she went inside. I assumed she'd call someone to get her. Seattle PD isn't a taxi service."

"Sounds like it's not a lot of things."

Samuels snorts derisively. "Listen, I've told you what I can. You want to file an official missing persons report in seventy-two hours, call me direct and I'll expedite things for you. Best I can do."

The line disconnects, leaving Charlie staring at the phone as the dial tone cuts in. He reaches out to hang up, settling back in his chair with a frown. "Something ain't right here, Jake."

Jake uncurls his six-and-a-half foot frame out of the cramped chair, grunts, and drags fingers roughly over his scalp. "Tell me about it. I've got calls out to everyone I can think of who might know this mystery "friend" Bella mentioned she's supposedly staying with in her text message, but no one has a clue. Her cell is still off, and her damn voicemail is full."

Charlie rises as well, scowling at the report on his desk. "I can't even remember the last time Bella _went_ to Seattle. Has to be over two years ago."

"At least," Jake agrees.

"I've got eyes on the lookout for any transactions she might make. Hotel, ATM, credit card."

So does Jake, but he leaves that unmentioned. He's pretty sure Seth's back-door approach will catch any trail Bella might leave before Charlie's legal ones will. He also leaves out that he has Seth tracking Bella's phone records. If she makes a call, Seth will be able to tell approximately from where, something Charlie can't do without a court order.

Charlie runs a weary hand over his face, his complexion ruddier than normal. "Not much else I can do, at least tonight."

"Are you going to check out this Lieutenant Samuels?"

"Already done," Charlie replies. "His record's clean, and Seattle PD has no information on Newton either. I got Embry to run a search on all their recent arrests in the last week. No one matching his description has hit their books."

Jake grunts. Charlie is a decent cop. He's looking at the right things, but something nags at Jake. The way Newton has vanished off the face of the earth gives his guts a strange tug, telling him something isn't right. Seth is all over Newton's I.D., bank accounts, credit cards and all his known social media. He hasn't logged into Facebook, sent any emails, or even signed into his account. He hasn't tweeted a single fucking hashtag or updated the website he uses to attract new bands to the Twilight Tavern. Seth likewise has cyber feelers out checking everything from hospitals to morgues.

Somehow, Newton must have been tipped off that his sick photo shrine was found. He has to be holed up with someone he knows. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

Leaning down, Jake scoops up the cup Charlie knocked off his desk, tossing it in the trash. He pushes all his theories about Mike to the back of his mind so he can do a little digging into what Charlie might be hiding from him.

"So, Charlie. I need to ask you something, and I need you to give me an honest answer."

Charlie levels him with a steely look, a wry twist to his mouth. "You think I wouldn't answer honest?"

Jake shrugs, though he keeps meeting Charlie's gaze, searching. "Bella's your daughter, and her and me, we aren't together anymore. I'd understand if you were keeping things quiet. Things of a personal nature, having to do with her."

Charlie sits back down in his chair, wincing like his backs giving him grief. "What things, Jake? Get to the point."

Jake puts his hands on the desk and leans forward a little. Not to intimidate, he knows that won't work with Charlie, but just to get closer, to watch the reactions and get Charlie's scent up his nose. People lie, they smell a little...off.

"There's some suspicion in my mind that Bella's been seeing someone else. Maybe someone not from around here. Maybe she's with him, and that's why she's ignoring us."

Charlie doesn't so much as blink. Not giving away his thoughts is something Charlie's damn good at. Still, Jake catches a reaction, small though it is—a little wrinkle at the corner of Charlie's eye twitches, the fingers on his left hand, still as sticks only a second ago, curl under. A peppery smell makes Jake's nostrils flare, something he thinks might be suspicion and evasion.

"You know something, Charlie?"

Charlie heaves out a breath laced with the faint traces of stale coffee, peppermint candy, and the subtler remnants of red meat—probably steak from the diner. The peppery smell fades quickly until all Jake gets up his sinus cavity is Charlie's normal scent: gun cleaner and leather from his boots, faint sweat and Irish Spring soap, the tang of a male slightly past his prime yet still virile.

"I don't know much, Jake, probably less than you do," he answers, leaning back heavily in his chair and rubbing his closed eyes, one-handed. "I know she was seen leaving the Twilight Tavern with a guy the night Newton went missing. They left together, walking, headed in the direction of your..._her_ house."

"Do you know who?"

Charlie shakes his head, dropping his hand back to his desk with a thud, blinking eyes that are red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "I don't know. You're right about whoever it is being not from around here. No one recognized him. The witnesses I talked to saw Bella having words with Newton. Seems like Newton was being a little grabby, and Bella wasn't taking too kindly to it. The guy she left with intervened and sent Newton off, pissed apparently. Then, like I said, Bella left with him."

Grabbing a folder off his desk, Charlie flips it open. "I talked to Mitchell Cope, bartender, and Melody Banner, waitress at the Twilight Tavern. Cope doesn't remember the guy. Banner does. Her description is spotty though. She basically only remembers he was 'good looking as sin'—and that's a quote—and that he 'tipped her huge'—another quote." He tosses the folder back on his desk.

"As far as what you're asking me, Jake, Bella hasn't shared anything with me. If she's involved with someone, she's keeping it to herself." He fixes Jake with his own inquisitive look. "What do you know about it?"

"Nothing more than you do, unfortunately. I heard she left with someone that night, too, but she's never said a word and none of her friends know who the guy is or if she's seen him again after that." Jake leaves out the hickey and Jessica Stanley's belief that it was a mark he himself left on Bella's skin.

Charlie nods. "Could be nothing then." He looks over Jake's head, eyes unfocussed. "Bella's not the type to...hook up randomly." He clears his throat, plainly uncomfortable with that line of thinking.

Jake silently agrees she's not the type. Doesn't mean it didn't happen. When she wasn't lost in her head, fighting whatever made her walk around like her guts and chest hurt, Bella was a healthy red-blooded woman who enjoyed sex and affection. She wouldn't be the first female in the world to get lonely and fall prey to...some guy looking to eat up something pretty and sweet. Jake's skin prickles, more heat churning up inside of him—the dry kind of heat that makes his skin hot and his temper hotter.

His mind feels hyper alert, his senses all on point. The too few hours he slept last night in Leah's bed should have him exhausted. Instead he feels revved up and ready to go. He wants action, now not later. He's too amped to just stay still.

"I do know something else you might find interesting, Charlie. I have a source who told me Newton was doing a little dope selling on the side. Prescription narcotics mainly from the sounds of it, though I'm not a hundred percent on that."

It's Jake's turn to do a little pacing. He was right; it doesn't help at all. He stops in front of a picture of Bella Charlie has on a bookshelf. Resisting the urge to pick it up, he continues, "I was told his supplier was a man, name of James. No last name, sorry. He runs with a woman, Victoria, and another man, Laurent. They might be a lead to finding Newton. He could be holed up with them somewhere."

Charlie's head bobs, his expression not surprised.

"You knew?" Jake asks. Charlie is more on top of this than he realized.

"Not the names, only that Newton was doing some selling. I've known for a while, just didn't have anything concrete to bust him with."

"Well, now you've got first names for his suppliers. It's not a lot to go on, but it's something anyway."

"Right, thanks. I'll look into it. Don't suppose you want to reveal your 'source?'"

"I'm going to head out," Jake says in reply, a small smile and the change in topic all the answer he plans to give. "It's been a long day. I'll keep my cell phone on. Call if you hear anything from Bella."

"I will. And you do the same, Jake." Charlie's says, tight and clipped. He's still pissed that Jake let Bella leave this morning.

Giving a brief nod in agreement, feeling the sting of Charlie's unspoken mistrust, Jake spins on his heel. He exits with a quick goodnight and closes Charlie's door. He doesn't leave though. Cocking his head, he tunes out the sound of voices from the main area to listen intently. Even with a solid door between them, Jake doesn't have any problem hearing Charlie pick up his phone, or the conversation that ensues. His hearing has always been razor sharp, and in the last few days, it's been sharper than ever.

"Embry, you get that information yet from that lawyer about the old Cullen house?"

Jake can't pick up the other side of things, so he's forced to endure silence for a minute.

"What the hell do you mean you can't get into their records without a warrant?"

More silence while Embry answers.

"Sealed? Why would rental records be sealed? I'm not asking for confidential information. I just want the basics! A phone number for Christ's sake."

More silence, but Jake's heard enough. Someone apparently is holed up on the old Cullen property, which is news to him, but might explain the whole riot act from Billy earlier.

Jake eases away from Charlie's door and heads for the nearest exit. He can find out who Charlie's trying to dig info up on his own, though not as easily as he'd like.

His mind spins. What are the odds that the one place he can't go is the same place Charlie is checking out? Jake might scoff over Quileute legends, but a so-called 'treaty' from his great-great Grandfather's days that ban Quileute from the land the Cullen house sits on is a different story entirely. The no-trespassing agreement still being enforced after all this time isn't one that ever made sense to Jake. Still, he's not about to step over a line as hard-drawn as that one. Not without damn good reason anyway. Fairytales about 'cold ones' is one thing; an iron clad agreement that will bring the entire population of the reservation down on his head if he breaks it is another.

Making his way to the parking lot, Jake calls Seth, getting the kid's voice mail.

"I got more work for you, kid. I'll be there in an hour."

He hangs up and gets in his car, wiping rain off his face. First he'll find out who exactly Charlie is checking on. Then he'll see what the connections are and whether or not it's worth stirring up a hornet's nest of issues with the tribal council to pay a visit to the new resident of the house that sits on '_no-man's-land_.' Bottom line, his priorities haven't changed, no matter how much Billy and Leah wish they would. Bella and finding her, making sure she's safe, is all that matters. It was him that let her leave, after all.

One mistake.

He won't make another, treaty and legends and bullshit be damned.

. . . . . .

Thunder rumbles in the distance. To Bella it feels like the rain and sporadic flashes of lightning are toying with them. Edward turns off the path leading out of the meadow, his pace increasing beyond any realm of normal.

The speed isn't shocking. Of course he can run like the wind. Of course he's faster than any animal or vehicle.

Of course he is.

The air movement lashes at her, hitting exposed skin. The volatile weather this last week seems personal somehow. Like it's directly related to the volatile situation she finds herself in.

She tucks her head into the space between Edward's neck and shoulder, burrowing her hands in the hair at his nape. His arms tighten around her in response, curling her body closer, tighter. It feels good and oddly as though he's sheltering her, wrapping around her protectively. Despite the fact he doesn't seem to exude any real body heat, Bella feels warmer.

A moment later she feels even warmer, and she realizes they've stopped. She opens her eyes tentatively to look around. Edward begins walking at a normal pace, not putting her down, still holding her in that way that seems too gentle and caring to be real—as if she is something infinitely precious to him. She tries to tell her mind to get with the program. She's an object to him, an amusing plaything, nothing more. It doesn't stop her from resting her head against his impossibly solid shoulder or relishing his strength that bears her weight as if it's nothing.

When a house comes into view, Bella's somehow not surprised by what she sees. It's large and old, classically regal in a stately way. The weight of years of neglect is evident in the sagging shutters and faded paint. Weeds choke the large bordering flower beds, and the few windows not boarded over are dirty, fogged with condensation that gives away their age and inefficiency. A myriad of cracks crisscross the glass in some places, and the wraparound porch sags at its corners, half rotted railings scarred and pitted. It's more mansion than house, conjuring up images in her mind of ladies in flowing dresses and men in suits with elegant, long-tailed jackets.

It's beautiful.

Scaffolding has been erected up the right side. Bella suspects it runs up the back of the house as well.

She wonders how far outside of town they are. A vague story from childhood about an old haunted house deep in the woods, tickles the edges of her memory. Charlie used to chase teenagers away when they tried to make the place a hangout for partying. Between that and the fact the place was severely isolated and reportedly creepy, it hadn't taken much to discourage them.

Edward carries her through the large front door. It closes behind him with a deep thud that attests to construction more solid than it seems. It's darker inside, but he takes her into a large living room area with ease. She suspects he can see perfectly, like a cat—or a lion.

The interior of the house is cooler. Closed up, it hasn't absorbed the outside heat. She smells fresh paint and new wood. Underneath lurks a musty odor that reminds her of old books and damp, half-rotted fabrics.

Edward sets her on her feet by a musty Victorian style sofa. He wraps a thick blanket over her shoulders, one that smells like old mothballs and feels like wool, slightly scratchy, heavy, and blissfully warm. Despite that comfort, she instantly misses the feeling of his arms around her.

He moves away, deeper into the growing shadows as she wraps the blanket around her body. Lightning flashes, creating flickers of white light that briefly illuminate the room. It's mostly empty, she determines. The only other furnishings are a Victorian style chair with a small table at its side and a large ornate fireplace—no lamps, pictures, knickknacks, or artwork. The floor creaks as she shuffles her feet. A match flares and she looks up to see Edward kneeling in front of the fireplace, lighting a fire. He's efficient and quick. The logs flame, crackling in an instant, mocking the many attempts she's witnessed by mortal men trying to start fires.

He rises in that fluid way of his to light several candles on the mantle. A flash, a slight breeze, and more candlelight appears around the room as if lit by themselves. The glow is warm, oddly soothing.

Edward is gone, leaving her alone in the room without a word.

Making her way to the fire, Bella stands in front, allowing the warmth to touch her, though she isn't cold any longer. Her wet clothes are uncomfortable, but only secondary to her exhaustion.

Music begins to play, the strains of a piano filling the house. She drifts toward the sound, drawn to it, moving through a doorway with ornate woodwork. She passes a staircase equally as ornate and beautiful. It winds upward, looking like something out of an old movie.

The music is beautiful, haunting. She isn't surprised to find Edward playing. It seems...fitting. He brought a candle here, and it rests on the piano. The meager light barely stretches beyond his silhouette. Heavy drapes frame a window, the space between them emitting only a little light from the sporadic lightning. She watches him, mesmerized by the way his fingers dance over the keys, his expression calm, his eyes closed as he plays. Gooseflesh breaks out on her skin. They were right, she thinks. This place is haunted.

The music wraps around her. She doesn't know classical music well, but she recognizes the composer as Rachmaninoff. Renee would sometimes listen to music like this when Bella was a child. She called it music for the soul.

As the strains of the melody rise and crest around Bella now, she understands for the first time what Renee meant, for this music seems to come from Edward's soul. Another nuance, another side of him to puzzle over.

She leaves him to his playing, wondering how much freedom he'll allow her as she moves back to the room she came from. She can see the front door from here. The music continues, unbroken, sad and melancholy in feeling, even as it carries a subtler note of something sinister. It weaves into her mood, haunting her as she ignores the door and the futility of escape. She's too tired to even try anyway. Once was enough. The solution to the crazy mess she finds herself in isn't going to be solved with anything so easy as running.

To the right, she finds a study or office. Bookshelves line the walls. As she flicks the light switch, dull light from a dust-covered chandelier illuminates a desk and chair that have such a commanding presence they startle her. Stepping deeper into the room, she runs her hand over the empty shelves, imagining books lined two deep, all with leather bound covers. She swears she smells them lingering in the air. Were there books here recently?

Running her fingers next over the desk makes her shiver. She doesn't understand what she feels in this room. Not fear, but something lingers here—a presence, a strong one. She imagines someone at this desk and wonders if many years ago Edward sat here. Is this house truly his?

Leaving the room, Bella heads down a hall and finds more empty spaces. A modern, recently renovated half bath at the end gives her a chance to look in a mirror. Her skin is pale, her lips red. A faded pink mark on her neck reminds her of events that took place only a short time ago. She runs shaking fingers over the area, remembering Edward's bite, his touch, the way she came so hard, so repetitively.

She uses the facilities and washes her hands, avoiding her reflection this time. The music plays on as she leaves the bathroom.

More empty rooms, a few in a state that show recent work. Paint cans and tools and drop cloths reveal Edward is taking time to repair things. It tells her he's staying, or at least implies it.

She finds a kitchen, the light there more modern, brighter. She blinks in the harsher glare, staring at the custom cabinetry that screams a high price tag. New, gleaming stainless steel appliances, all high end and elaborate with all the bells and whistles make her feel as though she's stepped into a different house, as though she's fast forwarded from the past to the present.

She touches the glossy cold surface of gorgeous black granite countertops, swirled with delicate lines of grays and whites. A large island is caved in, the heavy granite there cracked in half, the weight toppling in on itself. The destruction is so out of place it takes center stage. She notices damage to a wall as well, the imprint cracking the drywall appearing to be in the shape of a person—but that's...impossible.

Lightning flashes anew, illuminating a wall of glass on the far side of the room. Doors leading out to a garden where bags of soil and pots of plants glisten with rainwater draws her like a beckoning finger. She stands close to the glass, but the lightning stops, and all she can see is herself. A small brown-haired girl, drowned like a rat, and huddled in a shapeless blanket, face too pale, eyes too wide, lips too red.

The music plays on, and Bella feels it in her bones, stirring her blood. Is he sad, angry? Is that why he plays this song? Such passion; she feels that, too. It stirs her blood in a different way. He's incredibly talented. She wonders when he learned to play and how he learned to inject such emotion. So often he seems controlled and cold. There's nothing cold about the way he plays though.

Moving from the windows and doors, she opens the refrigerator. Her throat is dry, her thirst extreme. The fridge is empty, save for a few Styrofoam cartons taped tightly shut.

The music stops, and the second it does she feels Edward behind her. His fingers touch the back of her neck, a gentle caress that makes her shiver, though not from cold or fear. It's longing and it hurts.

She spins to face him, watching as his eyes study her, his fingers moving to her cheek then her jaw.

"What were you playing," she asks, surprised by how normal she sounds when what she feels is so...abnormal. "Rachmaninoff?"

Frowning slightly, like he didn't expect the question, Edward's hand falls away. "Yes. Prelude in C Sharp Minor. It's been...a very long time since I played." For a second his expression seems distant, troubled, but it's wiped clean before she can interpret it. "You're familiar with classical composers?"

"Not really. My mother listened from time to time when I was a kid. I guess some of it stuck, though I only know my favorites. Rachmaninoff is pretty distinctive." She shrugs self-deprecatingly, and he smiles, like she's revealed something he finds pleasing.

"Come," he says, holding out his hand. "You need to eat." She lets him draw her away from the refrigerator, and he opens a drawer beside the stove.

"I'm not hungry, just thirsty."

He ignores her, lifting several takeout food pamphlets out of the drawer. Reaching above her head, he secures a glass—crystal by the look of it—ornate and expensive. He fills it with water from the built-in dispenser in the fridge, handing it to her before tapping the menus and fanning them out.

"Choose," he orders as she drinks.

Bella finishes the glass and helps herself to more. "I'm not hungry," she repeats.

"Then I'll choose for you."

She watches him pull out a menu and pick up a cordless phone she didn't notice before from a concealed corner. Uninterested in anything except the fact there is a working phone in the house, Bella drifts back to the living room and the fire. She watches the flames lick and devour the wood, smelling the subtle bit of smoke that drifts into the room.

She feels oddly detached and numb as she listens to Edward order her Chinese food. She wonders if it's coincidence he chose the one menu she was actually tempted by, not that she thinks she'll be able to consume a bite.

Finishing her second glass of water, she feels more than hears his return. He plucks the empty glass from her hand and sets it on the mantle. The candlelight hitting it creates the prettiest prisms. Laying her hand under the refractions, she watches the colours dance on her skin.

She hears Edward move away and then sit. From her periphery, she catches the way he crosses his legs, the way the dark, wet denim of his jeans hugs the defined muscles in his thighs. The delicate almost feminine lines of the sofa only make him appear more masculine, more powerful. He's too enticing, and she refocuses on the fire.

"Will they even deliver this far out in this weather?" she asks, though she hardly cares. She meant it when she told him she's not hungry.

He doesn't answer, a slight humming laugh her only reply.

Of course they'll deliver. He told them to. She gets the impression no isn't something he hears very often. Is that why he finds her so appealing? Because she's a challenge?

The silence between them grows. Bella watches the fire and Edward watches her. The wood crackles and blackens as the fire devours it, and the storm outside drifts away.

"Whose house is this?" Bella asks finally, once the quiet between them has gone on so long she feels like she might fall asleep on her feet. The dark rich wood on the mantle feels like polished ivory under her fingertips as she runs them over an ornate swirl.

"Mine," he answers simply, then adds, "Or rather, my former...family's."

Interest piqued, she risks a glance at him. He's watching her still, missing nothing of her reaction to his statement. His lips quirk up at her interest.

"Ask, my little lamb. I have no secrets from you." He's mocking again. The opportunity to learn more isn't one she's about to pass up, though.

"Your...former family?"

"Is that the best you can do, Isabella? Ask the obvious questions?"

She doesn't respond, and he sighs. "There are others like me, lamb," he tells her, his tone all stating-the-obvious and condescending.

She knew this in theory. Of course there would be others. Her body wants to shiver; instead, she tightens her muscles and limbs, striving for composure.

"I suppose family is not the accurate word," he continues. "A more appropriate term would be...coven."

Bella breathes in through her nose, aware that the smell of him is on her and around her, stronger than the smells of the house and the fire now that she's paying attention. "Did you live here with them?"

He inclines his head in a short nod. "For a time."

"When?" It had to be long before her or...

"Nineteen hundred and three was my last year here."

1903! Her mind scrambles in on itself. That would make him one hundred and eight years old. At least!

He smirks again. "We lived here for several years before that, too, of course. We stayed for nearly five years—an unusual amount of time for our kind to linger in one place."

She chooses not to comment or ask for clarification on that, instead asking the more obvious. "How old are you?" Her voice is lost, her tone no more than a whisper, but he hears her fine. His eyes flash, and he leans toward her.

"Ah, finally, little beauty. An appropriate, inquisitive question about me personally. I'm flattered."

She glares, and he laughs. "I am over two centuries old. We'll leave it at that."

Bella blinks rapidly. Her insides clench and stay clenched.

. . . . . .

Edward watches as his age sinks into her psyche and bites deep. She's known what he is, but he knows this new information cements his immortality and power. He watches for fear and finds it widening the dark center of her pupils, rushing the breath in and out of her lungs. Her pale fingers grip tighter around the blanket.

He loathes the blanket. The smell of dampened wool irritates his nose and masks some of her scent. His concern for her comfort and temperature stops him from stripping it and her wet clothing from her body. What he truly wants is to have her naked, kneeling at his feet.

His lamb fights her fear, gathers it close and buries it deep. She's had practice at this, he realizes. A human learns the ability to be brave, to face demons; they are not born with it. He wonders at whose hand she learned, disliking the idea of trauma in her life, yet knowing the scars are an integral part of who she is.

"Perhaps in time I'll tell you my undead story," he says, giving her patience and a soft tone so she can continue to work at guarding herself. "Not tonight, however." He can easily see how overwhelmed she is. He half expects her questions to end. As usual she surprises him, pleases him.

"_What_ do you _want_ with _me_?" She sounds so desperate, biting off the words, letting the crescendo of them rise at the end, all sweet plea and useless fight for understanding things possibly beyond her realm of comprehending.

Oh, yes, she has bravery in spades, his lamb with the heart of a lion. He cocks his head and wonders if she truly wants the answer, if she's truly ready to hear it. He notes her trembling and the paleness of her skin.

A sudden chiming of a doorbell, followed by several rapid knocks saves them both. Edward smiles.

"Saved by the bell," he quips dryly, rising to his feet. "That will be your dinner, Isabella. Perhaps we should save the questions for after you've had time to regain your strength."

He watches her sink to the floor, curling her lovely legs underneath her. It's not quite the kneeling he was imagining only moments ago, but her submissive posture pleases him nonetheless. He moves to her and touches her hair, slides his hand down to her jaw, tipping up her chin with a light pressure. His thumb skates across her pretty bow lips. "Use the reprieve to ask yourself if you already know the answer to that question, Isabella. And if your response is no, then you should ask yourself if _my_ answer is one you're ready to hear."

He leaves her to get the door. He notices she does not move.

. . . . . .

He doesn't answer her question, and she wants to scream.

He touches her, and she wants to crawl inside of him.

She listens as he accepts the takeout food and pays the delivery person. From her position on the floor she can see the open door and the threshold beyond where the delivery man stands. He's young, his expression wary, as though Edward makes him nervous, though she can tell even from here Edward is doing nothing to intimidate. He hands over cash, and the man's expression turns from wary to dismay.

"This it too much money, man. The order is only $19.50...I don't have change for this."

"It's fine. Keep it."

Bella can't see the money that changes hands, but she does see the shocked face Edward closes the door on. She doesn't recognize the young man. She doesn't think he saw her at all.

Edward returns and places the food on the small table, which he moves from its place by the chair, putting it in front of the sofa where he resumes his seat, this time leaving enough room for her to join him. "Come, Isabella."

"I told you, I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat. I took little from you in the meadow, but you still need to replenish your strength. It's been a stressful day, and the loss of blood only compounds the effect on your body."

Bella feels herself bristle. Peeling open containers, Edward holds out a set of paper wrapped chopsticks, which she ignores. Getting to her feet, she approaches the small table and stares at the food. It should look and smell appetizing. It doesn't.

"What do you want with me?" She repeats the question, softer this time. Despite the warning he gave her, she wants her answer.

"Eat, Isabella." His eyes darken. She's beginning to realize how much of a mood indicator they are.

"No." She watches his eyes darken further in proof of her theory. He truly doesn't like not getting his way. Edward places the chopsticks down and leans back. Thin ground, her mind warns, but this isn't something she can ignore. He told her to ask herself if she already knows the answer; she doesn't, not really.

"I asked you the same thing the night you took me back to The Twilight Tavern," she reminds him.

He inclines his head in agreement, proof at least that he's listening, even though he's still as a stone, just sitting there watching her in his eerie way.

"You said you wanted...to have sex...and blood." She swallows, wanting to garner her courage to tell him he's gotten both, and therefore she has nothing else to give. She never gets the chance.

One second he's sitting, the next he's standing in front of her, moving her back, pinning her to the wall beside the fireplace, careful, so careful, yet with a force that restrains her completely, captures her wholly. He cages her in with his arms, immobilizes her with just his dark stare.

He strokes his thumb over her pulse. "What do I want?" he repeats, quiet and serious, the intensity of him, his presence, all around her. "Perhaps a better question would be, what _don't_ I want."

She shakes her head at him. That isn't what she asked. He's told her what her worth is. Sex and blood. He's taken both. She's given him both...

"I want _all_ of you, Isabella." He coils a finger around a thick bunch of her hair, twists it, twines it, drags it behind her shoulder between her fragile bones and the solid wall, tugs hard and forces her head to tip up—no escape from that gaze or the words that instantly begin to strip her bare, down to the darkest, neediest parts of her.

"Oh, little beauty, the things I _want_. Sex and blood, yes, but so much more." He breathes out, and she breathes in. "I want your skin and your bones, your flesh and every vein within it. I want every tendon, muscle, and sinew that binds you, every organ that sustains you. From the crown of your head to the hard little tips of your toenails and everything in between." He leans closer, pressing one hard thigh between hers. "I want your cream-skinned throat, your pink-tipped breasts, and your sweet, tight little cunt. All of it, all of you, every inch."

The wicked, dirty words lash over her, their tiny sting creating heat and need instead of the offense her logical mind tries to insist on.

No one has ever spoken to her like this.

No one has ever _wanted _her like this.

Edward presses in closer still, overwhelmingly powerful and arousing her every sense. She can see, feel, taste, and smell only him. His lips skim her cheek, brushing over her ear. The back of her head hits the wall, nowhere to go as he speaks so softly in a voice that conjures sex and sin.

"I want everything you are and everything you will be, my lamb," he says, mastery in his every inflection. "Hear me now, little beauty. I want the memories of your past, the moments of your present, the endless possibilities of your future. I want every thought in your quiet, elusive, frustrating, beguiling mind." Cool lips ghost across her pulse point. She hears him inhale then groan quietly. "I _want_ the confession of your sins, and the right to covet and corrupt your innocence. Your darkest secrets and your most imaginative dreams, your unwavering loyalty and your unfailing fidelity." A cold hand grips her jaw, tight like a vise, just the sweet side of pain. His lips curl up from his teeth, a snarl finding its way into the words. "I want it _all_, Isabella. I _want_ your fucking soul."

Her head spins and her knees give out. She doesn't panic. She suspects he'll catch her.

He does.

. . . . . .


	17. Temtasiwn

A/N Thanks & love to my amazing beta Saritadreaming. Your advice and guidance are invaluable. I made some tweaks and adjustments late in the game so if you find any mistakes, dear readers, those are all mine.

Thanks & love to my awesome prereaders Popola, RubyLou & Doobawrites. I was a demanding author this time around. Your contributions are appreciated more than I can say.

. . . . . .

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

_Temptation_

_One foot in the ground_

. . . . . .

Chapter 17

**Temtasiwn**

. . . . . .

Edward forces her to eat. Well, force would be a strong word. He doesn't cram food down her throat or make threats; he simply places her down on the sofa when she's recovered from her half-faint. With ridiculous ease, he manipulates the chopsticks, gathering up small bites of shrimp Lo Mein and feeding them to her with that same look he wore at the rest stop earlier today. As if providing her with food pleases him, as if he cares that she chews and swallows, and yes, even enjoys every bite. It's that look that has her mouth opening and closing around the chopsticks more than a desire for the food itself. She tastes little.

After only a few bites, her stomach rebels. Shaking her head at him, he tries to insist.

"You need more."

"I can't."

"You've hardly consumed anything."

"I'll throw up. I can't."

He puts the chopsticks down and studies her. "You feel unwell?"

"_Yes_," she answers emphatically, unable to hide her exasperation. She doesn't understand him. He claims to want her soul, yet he feeds her like a gentle, doting lover. He shows concern for her well-being, yet he's the very thing that threatens it, both mentally and physically.

Trying to put space between him and the way he makes her feel, Bella rises and returns to the fire, legs trembling, willpower lagging. Her equilibrium has settled somewhat with the food at least, meaning he was right about her needing to eat. And even though she's told him she feels sick, the truth is her stomach feels more settled now that it isn't empty.

The flames feel very warm as she lets the heat buffet her in waves. Still clutching the blanket, she notices her clothes have begun to dry. The house is cooler than outside but still stuffy, making the fire unnecessary. She wonders why he lit it. For her? Because her clothes were wet, and he didn't want her cold?

She looks up, not surprised to find him watching, and likewise not surprised he isn't where she left him. She's growing used to the way he does the unexpected. Maybe.

The food is gone, the table back in its place beside the chair, though she never heard him move or take anything out of the room. He stands near the doorway that leads to the kitchen, leaning a shoulder against the frame. His shirt is rumpled where her hands fisted the fabric in the meadow. The way his jeans hug his hips remind her of how they felt against the inside of her thighs. A shiver skips down her spine, filled with desire and the heat of arousal.

_How does he do that?_ she wonders. How does he make her feel this way when all he's given her are games and demands? He's tilted her world on its axis, and a part of her wants to spin herself dizzy in this new slanted place, cave to the insanity.

He smirks, like he knows what she's thinking. "Come here, little lamb."

"No." The refusal comes from her pride only. Her body lashes her with little whips of pain, the memory of the ache she feels when he's not there taunting and punishing her for not giving in.

_You can't have my soul_, she thinks, though she doesn't dare say it out loud. Not yet. She isn't ready for more confrontation.

He smiles, the gorgeous curves of his lips almost cruel—almost. "Come here, Isabella."

Her heart pounds, her body humming with adrenaline as she tries to lock her muscles in denial. They scream in protest, joined by her screeching, craving, traitorous nerve endings. Her skin burns, wanting the cool feel of his touch, wanting to be covered and blanketed by him. She wants to tear her skin off and give it to him. Maybe then her mind will be her own again.

Hot tears burn behind her tired, dry eyes.

"So beautiful, so headstrong, little lamb." His smile twists wryly, amusement dancing with the almost-cruelty. The humor vanishes in the millisecond it takes her to blink traitor tears away. It's replaced by determination, the cruel slash of his mouth softening with something tender she cannot define, though it makes her stomach clench with the sweetest, most needful ache. His velvet voice softens cajolingly, sliding over her body like a whispery touch. His expression turns serious, as though he sees and understands her—the real her and not the one she shows the world.

"Enough of this, Isabella. Stop fighting me. Come to me. Let me ease you, let me hold you. I can feel and see how done in you are. Come and sleep in my arms, for I am weary of fighting and it will ease me as well. Let me feel you close and know you are safe."

"Safe?" she asks, sarcasm rolling off her tongue.

The line of his jaw clenches, strained muscle ticking as those black, red-rust eyes flash in displeasure.

"Safe," he answers, his tone firm, insistent.

The last of her resistance begins to topple like a weak house of cards. She holds onto the threads, though her heart is no longer in it. The shelter of him isn't anything she truly wants to deny herself.

He reaches out his hand, and the threads snap, freeing her feet to move and cross the short distance between them. She touches her fingers to his, and he draws her close, slowly, his arms encircling her until she is pressed against him. A euphoria of relief washes over her, pain, emptiness, fear, and anger vanishing like they never existed. Her overtaxed muscles sag in sweet respite, and she feels him, once more, catch her before she can fall.

"Safe, my Isabella," he breathes in reassurance against her hair as she trembles in the sudden letdown of pent up adrenaline and encroaching exhaustion.

_Safe._ Yes. She feels exquisitely safe for the first time in her entire life. It's a bitter moment for her, realizing she's _never_ felt sheltered or protected. She's always felt as if her safety balanced on some precarious edge, a lesson learned too young at the hands of an unstable parent, a lesson she's never forgotten. Confused, she stares at him, this man, this _vampire_, wondering at the strangeness of feeling safe in the arms of the most dangerous creature in the world.

Edward lifts her up, cradling her and carrying her out of the room and up the ornate, winding staircase. A part of her wants to demand he put her down, walk under he own power, another part finds it easier in this moment to bend to his will.

Turning her face into the lingering damp of his shirt, she drags the smell of him as deep as her lungs will allow, paying no attention to the rooms they pass. Everything is dark anyway, and she feels the peaceful shadows brush away the last of her anxieties. It doesn't matter why she feels safe; it only matters that she does.

She needs this.

She needs him.

_God help her_.

Sleep begins to drag her inexorably down as soon as Edward lays her on cool sheets. Warm, moist air from an open window touches her skin as he undresses her, the sound of the rain a soothing background lullaby. She fights to stay awake, to stay aware, _to stay in control_, but his fingers ghost over her bared flesh and steal her resolve.

His mouth touches hers, not a kiss but a light dragging back and forth that makes her lips tingle as his sweet breath floods and sparks her faltering synapses of consciousness.

She whimpers, wanting and lost and found—oddly complete, yet, oh, so needing.

"Hush, my little beauty," he exhales. "Hush."

Strong hands that could snap her like a brittle twig move her gently, carefully. One slides under her back and lifts her, arching her spine, while another slides up her inner thigh, palm and fingers igniting and inflaming even as they cool and soothe. So many oxymorons to devil her...

She tumbles in that precarious place between sleep and wake, warm desire flooding her, melting her against cool, sure strokes of clever, knowing fingers.

"There, little lamb. Open for me, that's it. Let me ease you, my sweet exhausted exasperating beauty. Let me please you." Soft coaxing swirls up the most deliquescent of pleasures, creating shards of sparkling light behind her eyelids. She cannot move, her body drifting deeper into sleep, but, oh, the sensation of his touch is sweet and good...

Tension curls lazy and delicious inside, lifting her, spinning her. Her inner muscles flutter, too tired to clench as she melts further into his touch.

"You belong to me, Isabella. You belong _with_ me, by my side for eternity," he murmurs in her ear, so quiet and soft she isn't sure he's truly speaking, perhaps she's dreaming...

"Safe with me, cherished by me, protected and adored, always."

Her body floats up then hovers, bliss and relief right on the cusp. She cannot open her eyes.

_Safe..._

"Open your eyes, Isabella."

What she cannot control, Edward apparently can. Sleep maintains its tenuous half-hold, and still her weighted eyelids lift at his request. She feels awareness battle back the wispy beginnings of dreams. Pale, weak, intermittent lightning illuminates him as the touch between her thighs becomes more demanding. It feels so good, she isn't sure she can bear it.

"You can. You will."

Did she speak out loud? She didn't mean to...

Pleasure crests; her eyes fall closed. She's swept up and over, _free falling_—white waves and decadent rolling sensations—and down and under she slides. At the edge of her consciousness she hears more whispered words, though she's long since passed the ability to grasp meaning.

She thinks she hears, "_You are mine, and I am yours, little lamb_."

But maybe she's dreaming...

. . . . . .

Edward watches Isabella sleep, the tiny lines of stress around her eyes vanishing the deeper she slips into her exhausted slumber. Her lips part and she sighs, whisper soft, turning into him, curling against him. All her guards slip, and in this moment he sees how right they are, how much she needs him when her pride and confusion lose their dominion over her. She exudes peace and contentment as he holds her close.

Edward envies her such peace. Even while his pride swells for being able to offer it to her, the rest of him finds little comfort. The fragile nature of the bond he has with her is too apparent. Combined with this situation, this interminable, _damnable_ situation, it would be enough to keep him awake, were he capable of sleep.

His mind races.

He never thought he would find a mate. Never mind a human one. Living with mated pairs during his time here previously, Edward had always felt the odd-one-out. His gift made it harder, privy as he was to so much intimate knowledge. He was an unwilling peeping tom, as much victim as perpetrator, and it caused him to sequester himself away from them more often than not. He'd delved little into the connections between them. They were an enigma to him, and their strange bonds to their mates seemed...a weakness. And still, those moments of invasion he was unable to avoid left a mark upon him, made him all too aware of his lonely existence.

His time away from familial associations hardened him. Years passed swiftly, and former loneliness turned to acceptance and cold calculation.

Until now that is. Edward feels the thaw, feels his attachment to the fragile creature in his arms growing inexplicably. She is strong, stubborn, intelligent, and willful. He..._likes_ her.

Change is so rare for his kind, and this 'thaw' comes with its fair share of discomfort and confusion. He still doesn't know what it all means, what it all entails. He's flying blind, and the feeling does more than unsettle him, it makes him angry. For the first time in a century, Edward almost wishes he could speak with Carlisle.

Quickly he banishes such thoughts. Old wounds itch, making him scoff at whimsical desires. Judgement and recrimination is hardly the thing he seeks, and likely all he would find should he chase such a foolish impulse.

His thoughts return to the issues at hand.

He knows he brought Isabella here to this house on instinct as old as time. Instinct that bade him to cosset and shelter her in his own domain, to keep her from the world outside that would attempt to take her from him. She was his after all. The action made sense. But more than simple instinct, he _wants_ her here, and that feeling confuses him. Since when has he ever _'wanted'_ anything?

Edward growls quietly, frustrated at all this introspection. It hardly matters _why_. His little beauty is perhaps more clever than him in this regard. Why is a useless question, nothing more than a lead-in to more infernal questions.

The problems remain however, because his instincts have raced ahead of his preparedness.

The house is not ready to shelter her. She cannot be here among unfinished rooms and construction chaos for any length of time. He doesn't even have food for her here, never mind the dozens of other items and comforts humans need.

He discards yet again the idea of taking her away, simply running. As much as Isabella defies him and his possession of her, Edward knows deep into his core that her fight is waning. Her full submission is as inevitable as the rising of the moon slowly banishing the cloud cover above this house. If he ran with her, took her away, she would struggle. Eventually though, he would convince her, make her forget the life she leaves behind and embrace the new one he will lay at her feet—given enough time.

If only things were that simple. If only he had that luxury of time. He doubts he does.

Edward brushes a stray strand of hair away from Isabella's pale, shadow-kissed cheek. His mind spins faster.

So many complications.

How long could they run before encountering someone of his kind? How long could he keep the secret of this unnatural bond? How long before the wall that blocks his sister's visions crumbles?

Even more pressing, how long before the not-quite-a-wolf tracks them? Edward already senses the halfling-dog on his tail, a stench-ridden sensation based on centuries of acquired experience and predator-based instincts rather than actual knowledge.

His instincts never lie.

Frustrated and restless, Edward tucks a light sheet and blanket around Isabella, withdrawing from her embrace. She whimpers at the loss of his closeness, making him smile.

He feels it also. The pull, the draw, the need to have her as near to him as possible. "Sleep now," he tells her, attempting to ease. "I won't be far." He speaks in near silence so as not to awaken her, and he's pleased when she settles, as though her subconscious mind hears him. Perhaps it does.

In the room across the hall, Edward sits at a simple chair and desk taken from a room that used to belong to Jasper. The wood on the surface of the desk is pitted and warped from years and damp, termites and mold, but it serves its purpose as Edward turns on the glaringly modern-by-contrast laptop. He navigates past the home screen and types in encrypted pass codes to an email address that few in the world could access. It is virtually invisible and safe-guarded in ways that would make any who could instantly sorry. He checks first to make sure no one has made attempts, then opens several messages.

Jenks, letting him know Chief Swan has been in touch with Lieutenant Samuels. Their brief phone conversation was recorded, and Edward listens to the forwarded audio copy, frowning, though not surprised. Charles Swan could prove to be more difficult than Edward previously imagined.

Replaying the recording, Edward closes his eyes, listening to more than the conversation. He easily, despite the limitations of the recording device, picks up the sound of another person in the room with Isabella's father. Edward hedges his bets and decides the breather is most likely the pup. His lips curl upward, baring teeth on a low growl of displeasure.

Moving on, Edward finds more proof of the mutt's growing interference. Unsophisticated tracers have been placed on Mike Newton's known sources of identification. Jenks, under Edward's orders, has been monitoring all police actions regarding the search for the dead cretin. The shady lawyer is never one to cut corners, so he's widened his coverage and picked up an outside source also searching for signs of Newton's whereabouts. The identity of the person making the search took some time to deduce but eventually yielded the name Seth Clearwater.

Edward smirks as Seth Clearwater's image appears on his screen, along with a list of information regarding everything from the boy's age and address to a lengthy list of minor crimes in the cyber world.

"Well, young Quileute hacker," Edward muses quietly, "do your best." He tags the email, sending it back to Jenks. Jenks will now know to more closely monitor this new situation. Edward won't yet shut the child down. His activities are most likely related to requests given to him by Jacob Black, or possibly even someone else in the Quileute tribe. Certainly, by now, if any history exists concerning the century old treaty, they'd be getting curious.

Yet another complication.

Edward adds it to the list. For now all he can do is keep tabs.

For now.

. . . . . .

The rain finally stops as Jake exits his car. The familiar smells of wet pine, resin, and wood mix with cooking smells and motor oil as he makes his way to Seth's home away from home. The run down garage shows light bleeding out from under the battered door, letting Jake know someone's 'home.' Slipping a key from his pocket, he lets himself in, greeted by the stench of pot and the blaring sound of metal rock music.

Seth, headphones glued to his head, oblivious to anything except whatever he's watching on the six computer monitors crowding a long, narrow table, doesn't hear him. Jake snorts in derision and gives Seth a sharp finger flick to the back of his neck. The kid yelps, scrambling to remove the headphones before spinning his chair around. The wheels squeak in protest, loud in the now quiet room as the music shuts off.

Seth breaks out in a grin when he realizes it's Jake and hooks the headphones around his neck.

"Shit, man, you scared me. What are you doing here?"

Settling down on the old couch, Jake scowls at Seth. "Obviously I'm here to see you, dumb-ass."

Seth looks like a kicked puppy. "Hey, what's with the names?"

"I can smell pot six blocks away, Seth."

Looking guilty, Seth fiddles with a loose piece of duct tape that's come unraveled from the arm of his chair. The crisscross pattern of silver tape peels up at the edges doing a piss-poor job of fixing whatever it's concealing. As Seth scoots the chair to the right a few feet, the loose tape strand flutters like a tail.

"Pot? What?" Seth asks, managing to look guiltier despite the wide eyes and baby face.

Jake blows it off. He has bigger fish to fry. "Never mind. Look, I need you to do a little more digging for me. You up for it?"

Seth grins and cracks his knuckles. "I'm always ready, man. What do you need?" He spins the chair around and wheels it down to the far end. Whatever video game the kid was playing vanishes off the numerous monitors to be replaced by blank screens with green blinking cursors. Another kick of his feet and Seth wheels back to the opposite end, duct tape tail fanning out behind him. He turns on a small black box. It boots up with a loud hum, red lights blinking in a long row.

"I want to know who's taken up residence in the old Cullen house."

Seth spins to face Jake, scratching his head, looking alarmed.

"Cullen house?"

"That's what I said."

"As in..._the_ Cullen house?" Seth makes air quote signs around the sentence, expression twisted in surprise. Jake can practically see the gears in the kids head turning.

"Is there another Cullen house?" he asks dryly.

Seth swallows and looks uneasy. "Shit, I hope so, 'cause I don't think I want to go messing around with the one I think you're talking about."

Jake feels a weird mix of annoyance and amusement blend with an unhealthy dose of impatience. Christ, it's been a long day. He's tired and hungry. He wants food and sleep. He doesn't want to deal with more superstitious Quileute bullshit. He'd like to think Seth is more clearheaded than to buy into the crap peddled out around here, but he knows better. Seth might love his high-tech world, but underneath his smart, analytical mind beats the heart of a boy raised from birth in a community that force feeds this shit down kid's throats by the shovelful.

"I'm not asking you to go there, Seth. I just want you to find out if it's currently occupied..."

"I already know it is," Seth mutters, cutting Jake off. "Everyone around here does."

Jake leans forward. "What?" That _he_ had to learn this by eavesdropping on Charlie is a kick in the teeth.

Seth shrugs. "Hell, dude. If you came around a little more often and actually paid attention the few times you stroll home, you'd know that, too. There's been a crap-load of construction going on over there all week. It's all anyone's been talking about." Seth fidgets nervously with the loose tape, trying to rewrap it around the cracked vinyl that leaks foam padding yellow with age.

"No one has said a word to me," Jake grates out, pissed. Seth looks back up, surprised, dropping the tape that's too dried out to stick. "Well, damn, Jake. Don't act all mad and surprised. What do you expect? You pretty much take off anyone's head who dares talk to you about stuff like that!"

Jake clenches his jaw wanting to swear a blue-streak. Of course Seth would think in terms of bogus treaties and not in the real world where a newcomer to a town as small as Forks would be an interesting tidbit of information. Reining in his temper, Jake crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you going to look, or are you telling me you already know who's over there doing the work and living in that house?"

Seth's eyes widen. "No, man, I don't know who it is. No one does. You know we can't go anywhere near that property. There's been some meetings, but so far, no one knows much."

"Meetings?" Jake uncurls his arms, fists clenching. "What kind of meetings?"

Holding up his hands up, greasy hair flopping over his forehead, Seth's lips compress. "Don't ask me. I'm just a kid, remember?" A touch of bitterness paints Seth's tone in veiled hostility. Jake remembers that up until his death, Seth's dad was part of the tribal council for the reservation. His mom, Sue, has since taken his place. Jake wonders if the hostility is over the council deeming Seth too young to have a position. Without a doubt, the meetings Seth's talking about have to be council meetings—with Jake's dad Billy at the head.

Shit. Jake is out of the fucking loop, big time. By his own choosing, yeah, but that doesn't make the fact he's been walking around clueless any easier to swallow.

Billy calling Jake to the house and giving him that speech about responsibility is making more sense by the minute.

_Damn it!_

Resisting the urge to sneer and lecture Seth about the stupidity of buying into Quileute myths, Jake points at the row of computer screens. He deals with facts, not fantasy, and the fact is someone is living in that house, and Charlie is looking into him for some reason.

"You can figure out who it is, Seth. Why haven't you?"

Seth looks freaked, though he tries to hide it, messing with the headphones around his neck like he's fixing the collar of a twisted shirt. "Why would I? I don't care about stuff like that; you know I don't, Jake. It's nothing to me who lives there or whatever." A compulsive swallow gives away Seth's nerves, negating the lies he wants Jake to buy. It's fear—pure, stupid, superstitious fear—that keeps Seth from putting his considerable talent to use, nothing more.

"Well, you might not care, but I do. I need you to work your magic and get me a name. A basic bio, too, if you can."

Seth scratches his head, avoiding meeting Jake's eyes. "I don't know, Jake. I feel like...I don't know, like I'm breaking rules here."

"You're always breaking rules, Seth."

"Yeah, I know, but not...these kind of rules."

"Christ, Seth. Tell me you don't buy all this bullshit?"

Snapping his head up, Seth scowls. "Don't pawn your shit off on me, Jake. I mean, what I do and don't believe doesn't matter. What matters is there are rules I gotta follow. So do you, whether you like it or not. I can't just dig up information on a guy living in a house on land our people aren't allowed on. There's a treaty..."

Jake, losing control of his anger, gets to his feet. "The treaty says Quileute can't go on the land, not that we can't know who is currently living there. God damn it, Seth, get your head out of your ass. You have a great mind, so use it. Don't let some excuse for a tribal council lead you around by your nose!"

Seth goes quiet, and Jake instantly regrets his words.

"My family has been a part of that 'excuse' for a tribal council for hundreds of years, man," Seth says calmly, though a hint of his hurt leaks into the tone. "So has yours in case you forgot. And you might have no respect for anything about our people, but don't think you can tell me what to do or what to believe."

Cursing, Jake drags a hand over his face, feeling every one of the long hours he's been awake.

"I'm sorry, Seth. You're right. I'm just edgy." Jake's muscles twitch as if to offer visual proof of his claim. "Look. I'm not asking you to break rules. Just find out who's in the house. You'll be doing the tribe a favour, giving them answers, think of it that way."

Seth's eyes gleam a little, liking the idea, further cementing Jake's notion that Seth has hurt feelings about not having a place on the council.

"Yeah. I guess." He studies Jake suspiciously for a minute, opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, then thinks better of it.

"All right," he finally agrees. "I'll look, but, man, you're gonna owe me big. Like, I mean, huge."

Jake grunts out a grudging short laugh. "Yeah, what else is new?"

With a slow shake of his head, Seth laughs, his easy-going nature never one to hold a grudge. "Nothing. Just status quo, my brother, status quo." He spins back to his computers and cracks his knuckles. "Might wanna get comfortable. This is going to take a few minutes."

. . . . . .

Edward listens to the night. It's quiet around the house, even the insects choosing to give his dwelling wide berth. The storm has passed. He hears the sound of lingering rainwater dripping off the roof and sliding through the eave troughs, the rustle of damp leaves. Far off, the sound of occasional tire tracks from vehicles on the roads. All is quiet otherwise, yet his unease lingers.

Across the hall, Bella stirs, the sheets rustling as she shifts and sits up. Her heartbeat quickens slightly as awareness of her surroundings deepens. She's only slept a few hours, but the unfamiliar home and bed probably trouble her ability to sleep deeply.

He hears the sound of her feet hit the floor, the slight noise of the mattress giving up her weight, the fall of fabric as she drapes herself in the sheet. He wonders what she'll do, left to her own devices. Will she wander the house as she did before while he attempted to play out his frustration on the piano? Would she seek to escape?

Would she look for him?

He waits and listens, curious about her the way he's never been curious about any other person or thing in his existence, immortal or otherwise.

Doors open, and by the sound he knows she's found the closet. She'll find little inside, his needs being few. She lingers only a moment, then her feet pad across the room in the other direction. She pauses in the doorway that leads to the hall. Edward left it open, though he didn't turn on any lights. Only shadows will greet her view. She moves on and finds the door to the ensuite. Edward is grateful it is one of the few rooms in the house completely finished. He has stocked it in anticipation of any need she might have.

When Isabella exits the washroom minutes later, Edward powers down the laptop and rises to his feet. The walls are closing in, the time he has to coddle Isabella coming to an end. He feels the pressure from many points. The Quileute dog, Isabella's father, his uncertainty about his former family's meddling—it's all there, and it's only a matter of time before his hand is forced to make decisions he's barely begun to ponder.

For now, his priority is Isabella's safety and well-being. He will help her accept her fate and position by his side, then he will deal with the rest. Right now, he just wants to feel Isabella close to him. Perhaps he can ease her as well, soothe her restlessness.

He makes his way back to the bedroom and finds her sitting on the edge of the bed. She holds the sheet to her skin, hands fisted in the Egyptian cotton over her heart as though she's protecting the tenacious little organ. Her gaze lingers upon her feet on the floor, a tiny furrow on her brow. What he wouldn't give to know her current thoughts, to understand the war she wages with her internal struggles.

She looks up as he enters, watching him lean against the door frame. Her gaze skips down his body, taking in the lines and muscles. The notice of her approval of his shape and form shows in her softening expression. His attractiveness pleases her, and in return it pleases him. He's given little thought to his looks over the many years he's walked this earth. The beauty graced upon the ultimate predator, who hardly needs such a petty lure, is never one he's used to his advantage. Here in this moment though, if his appearance pleases her, draws her to him, he's more than willing to use it.

He shifts to allow her sight full view. The moon is at its highest point, flooding the room with silvery-white light, soft and ethereal now that the storm has passed. He knows how he appears and smiles a little as she loses the regular pace of her breath.

"You should sleep more," he admonishes gently. Moving from his place to her side, she startles at his sudden touch on her face, then settles as he strokes a thumb over the dark circle beneath one tired eye. She turns her head into the contact and inhales against his palm.

"You left me here, alone," she accuses, eyes searching his face. He wonders if she hears the need enveloped within her words, if she's cognizant of the plea her heart and breath speak as they both speed up, calling to him, rushing her blood through her veins.

_Siren. Singer. Lover. Life._

How he aches for her. Such a strange, foreign longing.

"Only for a moment," he tells her. "Only across the hall, mere feet away." Does she hear what he wants her to hear?

_I'm bound to your side, now, always, forever. I would never leave you vulnerable, open to harm._

"I was afraid..." Her words trail off, her gaze falls, and she shakes her head.

"What are you afraid of? Tell me." Tenderness is still such a new emotion for him, yet it's undeniable how she draws it out, makes him want nothing more than to see her...happy.

"There was a moment when I first woke up that I thought...this was all a messed up dream. Then I saw where I was and..." She shakes her head, her lips firming into a tight line, perhaps to keep herself from speaking more. Her liquid gaze tempers him, mesmerizes him as a silent tear spills down her cheek and lands upon the crux of his thumb and finger. A sizzle of silk-wet heat against his cold skin. "I keep wondering if I'm...crazy, because you can't be real."

A protective growl vibrates deep in his throat. Her exhaustion makes her vulnerable, the darkness of night makes her brave, and finally, _finally,_ she speaks things he understands.

"I've asked you to accept much in a short time, but you should have no fear for your sanity. It's intact."

"I don't know," she whispers, all seductive innocence as she turns her face once again to his palm. The touch of her tongue makes him hiss.

"Do you not feel me, taste me, Isabella? His other hand rises and slides deep into lustrous hair, cradling her skull, thumb scraping over her delicate nape. "Look at me. I'm real. I'm here with you."

Edward tips her chin and lowers to her mouth. His thirst ignites but it makes no claim on him. Hunger is easily ignored in favor of other treasures, namely her acceptance of what exists between them.

"There is more in this world than your eyes have seen. Open them now, lamb. Open them wide, and see what I offer."

"And when you get bored with me?" she asks, hands leaving the clutch of sheet and rising to wrap tightly around his biceps. Fabric slides down moonlight-kissed skin, supple breasts heaving with rapid breaths as she searches for more air, more clarity of mind.

"I will never grow tired of you." The reassurance is easily given, but no less devout for the ease of the promise.

Exhausted, she releases a frustrated sigh.

"You try too hard to understand things your sleep-deprived mind cannot grasp. Now is not the time to question everything, Isabella." Edward leans her back and lies her down on the bed, his body moving over top of hers. She shudders and sighs as their bodies align, relaxing beneath him. Whether she knows it or not, her skin craves him, her muscles know him, her bones soften and mold to him.

Her hands glide down his arms then back up, stroking over his shoulders and around to his chest. He seeks to seduce her, to remind her of how perfect physical union is between them, but she turns tables and wraps him around her finger. One of many that glide over his jaw, caress his mouth. He takes one inside and bites the delicate pad, soothing his desiccated mouth with the perfect burst of her blood against his tongue.

She moans, wanton at the sight of him suckling her life's essence from her flesh. "How can you make me feel this, want this?"

"The same way you make me feel and want this. You tempt me so. Perhaps it's me who should question my sanity?"

She shakes her head and whimpers needfully as he sucks a fresh droplet from the wound before lapping his tongue over the tiny cut, sealing it closed.

"This is so...wrong." Her heart quivers; her flesh trembles.

Edward smiles against her flesh. "Is it? Or is it the one truly right thing in your entire world, lamb?" She shakes her head, and he laughs darkly. "Little temptress, so lost in your denial," he murmurs to her. "Close your eyes, Isabella. Stop your mind. Feel—just feel." It's gentleness she needs now, yet another thing that's new to him. He finds it easier to give than he expects. Perhaps he needs it, too. Something sweeter and warmer than the cold berths he's known—something slow and reverent to anchor them both.

She shivers beneath him as he strokes down her arm to the hand that folds over his shoulder, fingers fluttering as she tries to learn his skin. He draws it away, up over her head, linking those restless fingers around the vines and rosebuds replicated in black wrought iron. He repeats the same action with her other hand, pleased with her sudden greedy whimper.

"That's it, beautiful lamb. No more thinking. Not tonight. You've been too long without my body against yours, without me inside you. You ache for it. Let me give you what you need, remind you how perfect this is between us."

He presses his mouth to her heart, his teeth aching to bury deep and take straight from the wet, red, pump. He lets his teeth nick instead, relishing her quiet cry of pleasure pain as he lifts his head to watch her blood well and trickle. Down it goes, spilling in a decadent crimson line over milky skin. He follows it, his tongue flicking softly, gathering every luscious drop. A bead quivers directly over her nipple, the tiny bud hardening in anticipation. He doesn't make her wait. A soft cry spills from her throat the second his tongue touches her there.

His licks and kisses are slow, smooth, never faltering even when her back arches off the bed, little wordless cries begging him for more.

He gives her more. A slow, sweet suck, the teasing scrape of teeth as he sensually rubs the blunt side of razor sharp incisors over and over the taut tip. First one breast then the other, until she writhes under him, her damp palms making slick noises against the metal she grips. She cries his name and he smiles, lifting his head to take her in.

The lines of her body please him; stretched out like this, she's more than sublime. How has he lived centuries without this? Without her?

His hands relearn her flesh and bones, all the unique angles, knowing he will never tire of touching her.

Moving back from her is painful yet necessary. She whimpers at the loss of his body against hers, and he's quick to stop hasty action.

"Keep your hands where they are, Isabella." On his knees between her splayed thighs, he unfastens his jeans. His movements are slow, methodical. He wants her to watch and she does. He wants her to relish what comes next, so he takes his time, dragging the button free, gliding the zipper down, spreading the denim wide and pushing it off his hips.

Her hands fist harder on their holds, and he smirks as she takes him in, pink tongue wetting dry lips. Thighs on either side of him tremble as though she wants to clench them, ease the ache he knows rages there.

He moves fast now to free himself, kicking the stiff rain-washed jeans away, gliding his hands up her calves, her thighs, stopping just short of touching her intimately. His lamb squirms, torn between wanting his touch and wanting to hide from his perusal.

"Exquisite," he groans, his approval all too evident in a voice tinged rough with lust. "So many decades of life and never have my eyes lain upon a sight more lovely than you."

His touch moves up over her hips, across the cradle of her pelvis, the tiny patch of soft hair above her tender sex. The little slit is so delicate, pouting and flushed, glistening. He wants nothing more than to touch her there, open her, spread her, dip inside with fingers and tongue and feel her shatter in bliss, _but not yet_. He wants her out of her mind first.

"No one is more beautiful than you," she whispers, shaking her head. He laughs because she pleases him so.

"Shall I get a mirror, Isabella? Again?"

She blushes from head to toe as he lowers his body to hers. The heat of her is a sensation unlike any other. Truly she burns him, and in the flames he feels reborn. He takes her mouth, roughly, hungrily, needing her taste. Her tongue dances with his, dragging him from reason to hunger.

His gorgeous mate is eager.

His body rests between the crux of her thighs, and her arousal is a slick, gratifying thing. That she wants him as much as he wants her feels like a gift. For all her denial and fight, this right here is truth.

She was made for him.

"Do you feel how your body craves mine, beauty?" he demands.

"Yes," she whimpers, hips lifting, twisting, driving him mad as her sweet heat envelops him, rocking up and down. God, he could come this instant, his cock so hard, precum leaking over her, drenching her even more. Her mouth opens, panting breath warm and sweet, little body heating further, legs clamping around his hips. He doesn't move, just lets her take.

"Yes," he encourages her. "Take what you want, ease yourself on me—rock harder, faster—there, right _there_. Stroke that pretty clit against me." Growling he strives for control. "Make yourself come, Isabella."

Her cry is shattered, broken with the need for air and the muscles that clench as she spills so sweetly over him—feminine honey and little pulses and spasms that make him nearly desperate to be inside her, but _not_ yet.

"There, such a good girl. That's it, though it's not enough is it?" She cries out softly, head tossing against the pillows, hands dropping from the headboard and clinging to his shoulders, dragging across his back as she rides out the little climax that he knows won't come close to satisfying her.

"God, Edward, please. I need..."

"Oh, I know what you need," he growls, rocking his hips now, taking over when she falters. He has needs of his own, and they wage war upon him. He smells the still seeping blood from the tiny cut above her heart, mingling with the erotic smell of sex, her desire blending with his, her sweat, her perfect flower-fresh-flesh.

Her nails try uselessly to dig in as his teeth scrape over her pulse point, laving it with his tongue as his hands slide beneath her, under her succulent little ass, dragging her up harder against him.

She's coming again when he bites, unable to stop himself, unable to resist. The pure bliss of feeling her climax combines with the sublime ecstasy of her blood hitting his tongue, drenching his burning throat. It undoes him. His cock explodes, jetting release in pulses that feel never-ending, and _God_, it's not enough.

He roars, tearing his mouth from her neck, healing the bite quickly before dragging kisses down her body, scraping teeth anew over the cut above her breast, reopening it for a slow, deep draw. He licks it closed after only a second and groans as he moves lower, across her sweetly sloped belly, over her sharp little hipbones, down to her thigh. One more bite right there, hard and deep as his hand cups her drenched-in-him-and-her-heat. Her divine rose-bud sex opens wider to his questing, greedy fingers, and it's so good it's a sweet kind of torture. The feel of her, the desire storming his body, taking over, are sensations nearly eviscerating in their strength, for he's never known anything like it.

Her swollen clit is the perfect jeweled bead, all red and starved for more touch. He gives it eagerly, stroking in quick little pulsing circles with his thumb while he fills her with one finger, two, stretching her until she must burn, adding one more. She's crying out when his teeth puncture deeper, femoral artery nicked, his mouth filling to overflowing just once. He only allows himself that one mouthful, decadent heat and red-gushing life so perfect in flavour, and still it's only secondary to the feel of her clenching, rippling around his fingers, spilling her release over his palm. Her musical cry of pleasure and climax drives him to lick and suck the punctures closed, lave and lave again to heal, to stave off pain, for she will never suffer under his hand.

He's up and rising over her, dragging his arms up behind her knees, opening her wide, wider before pressing in. She's heaven and hell. So tight he must slow down, pulse and urge and demand until she lets him in, still rippling, still coming, making him burn with the desire to be deeper.

He doesn't stop until his balls press to her ass and even then he rocks, pushing for more, taking her to the edge of her tolerance. She opens all the way and he stills, letting her feel him, feel the burn of his possession.

Her eyes are glazed, her hands low on his back, pressing, though he can get no closer save if he crawled beneath her skin.

"Look at me," he demands gruffly, wanting her focus.

"Edward, oh, God, Edward. It's not enough. I want more. Bite me again. Take me; let me be in you. I want to be in you." She's lost but he has her.

He smells fresh blood and knows she's hurt her hands on his skin, trying to scratch. He reaches back and secures them, pulling them up above her head, locking them there as he pulls back then drives forward, deep, so deep. She groans and her head twists upon the tangled bedding. Her frantic need matches his, and he gives her one last tiny bite on the sweet little pillow of flesh just outside the curve of her inner arm. She clenches and spasms, coming hard around him as he presses his pelvis to hers, dragging up against the tight, taut little knot of her clit. She's so swollen, so perfectly ripe. The crown of his cock rubs perfectly on the sweet spot inside of her, keeping her coming and ratcheting up the fiery heat of desire so unknown to him before her.

He takes little blood. She can't spare it, and he won't endanger her ever again. He just lets her feel his teeth, his possession, because even though he doesn't know why, he does understand it seems to be something she needs, almost as much as him. She gives all of herself even if she doesn't yet know it.

She belongs to him. His treasure, his fragile, sweet, human mate.

He rocks slower, seals his bite and cradles her closer, kissing her panting mouth, the edge of her jaw and down to her throat. Groaning her name, he fills her and in return he feels filled. So full of life and warmth he wonders if his heart will suddenly start beating. It feels as if it could.

"Isabella, my beautiful, sweet, lamb. Feel me..."

"I do," she murmurs, her arms wrapping around him once more. The desperation recedes and it's only them, rocking, fucking slow and warm and sweet, giving and taking. He groans against her breast, lapping at the tiny nipple—so sweet that little bead of flesh he can hardly stand it. She feeds him, nurtures him, without blood. Just this. His thirst is nowhere near sated, but it doesn't matter. This is enough.

"Centuries," he groans, lifting his head to look at her. "Centuries of life and death and nothing compares to you."

She shakes her head, tears filling then escaping, her conflicting desires confusing her. He kisses them from her skin, one at a time, whispering praises and erotic promises as her body quickens again.

He lifts her closer, moves to his knees and takes her with him, holding her without effort, moving her on him, warm hips in his hands as he watches her expression and listens to her breathing and heart to ensure he pleases her. She trembles and he praises her more, guttural and rough.

"Perfect, little lamb. You feel so damn good around me. So tight and warm. If you could see what I see..."

"Tell me," she whisper-pleads, lush mouth so red, equally lush breasts pressing against his chest. Her tight little nipples scrape against his cool skin, so much heat imparted where it has no place. "Tell me what you see."

He growls, cupping her bottom in one hand, wrapping the fingers of his other into the riot of her tangled hair, dragging her head forward until his forehead is pressed to hers and he can smell the silk strands. Rain, sun, flowers, sweat and sex all over her, even there.

"I see a creature so beautiful and rare she shouldn't be real. I see a woman taking and giving more pleasure than I ever knew existed. I see ripe, kiss swollen lips and eyes dark with passion. I see pretty breasts, perfect for sucking and caressing and hips made for my hands, thighs perfectly shaped to wrap around my waist. I see you're ready to come again for me."

She gasps, and he laughs darkly, voice low and sinful. "Oh, yes, you are, aren't you. I can tell, Isabella. You're so tight and getting tighter by the second. I feel you, soaking me, rippling around me, your pretty clit thumping like a heartbeat, ready to explode." She shudders like a tempest, and he growls against her lips, teasing with kisses, slowing his thrusts to drag out her pleasure, keeping her on the edge this time, all the better to watch her tumble over it.

"Edward...oh, my, God, _yes._"

He's unable to deny her for more than a moment. She clamps down around him, and her back arches, hands tugging at the hair on his nape, rocking on him, faster and faster until he loses the fight to her perfect insistence.

She's coming and he is, too. He's lost in this connection between them that drowns out all reason and all difference. It's perhaps not sane or holy, but it so very, _very_, right.

They slow, and she collapses against him. He catches her, his breathing fast though he needs no air. He does need her scent, though, and it gives him what oxygen cannot—a momentary feeling of peace.

He cradles her limp form against him, relishing the connection that sparks over them both. Cupping her head, he kisses her slowly, sweetly, and when he's done, he whispers, "I see courage and strength and tenacity. I see honesty, integrity and vibrancy. I see a life barely lived and shadowed with hurt, a heart in need of succor and shelter. I see you, Isabella."

She shakes in his arms, buries her head in his shoulder, new tears, cathartic tears spilling hot and abundant over his shoulder. Edward cradles her closer and whispers again, "I see _you_."

. . . . . .


	18. Kuszenie

**Prey for the Wicked**

_"We exist in a world where the fear of illusion is real..."_

_. . . . . . _

Chapter 18

**Kuszenie**

. . . . . .

Jake dozes on the ratty sofa. The quiet sound of Seth typing frantically lulls him just as much as the familiar smells of motor oil and general garage dirt.

His mind slips, thoughts darting down mental alleys he generally avoids. He hears Bella's laughter like it's happening right then, but he's aware enough to know this is just a half-asleep dream. One of the hundreds of memories his brain has catalogued. He sees her in his mind, curled up in a corner of this very sofa, a book in her lap. An old Journey tune plays on the radio, and every now and then she hums along for a line or two.

Jake sees himself as well, up to his elbows in a torn apart motorcycle engine.

"_Hey, you. I thought you were going to help me. This is your bike, right?"_

"_I am helping. I'm staying out of your way."_

_Jake wipes his hands and strides over to her, yanks the book out of her hands and tosses it on the crates stacked up to make a coffee table. His hands catch her around the waist and tug her down till she lies beside him. She squeals laughter as he growls._

"_Down, wolf-man."_

"_Christ, Bells, don't call me that. I hear enough of that from my family and the other yahoos on this res."_

"_Okay, fine. How about, were-boy? Or..."_

_He kisses her hard, silencing her with a slow hot drag of his tongue. Her fingers tug at his t-shirt, a little sigh falling from her mouth as she tips her head back so he can kiss her neck. He nips her skin playfully, and she gasps, little shivers making her tremble in his hold. She always likes this. Little bites up and down her neck. His little freak._

"_Maybe I'm a vampire and not a werewolf," he teases, sucking lightly on her throat. He doesn't get why she likes that so much, but she makes a nice, encouraging sound in the back of her throat as he pushes her sweater up to get at bare skin._

_She makes one last attempt to cool him down, though her hands are rising up under his clothes as well. "You're way too hot to be a vampire, or did you forget they call them 'cold ones.'"_

"_Thanks, you're pretty hot yourself."_

_She laughs, breathless. "Jake! Stop. You're all dirty."_

"_I am. And I'm about to get a lot dirtier..."_

"Jake..."

"_Don't you think we should move this...somewhere more private?" This garage fades away and Jake's own garage takes shape. Bella and her laughter fade away as well, but still there is a warm body pressed tight against him, welcome curves under his hands, breath on his neck._

_Leah._

Jake still knows he's dreaming, or something close to it. He doesn't fight the change in memories.

"_Let's go upstairs, Jake. You have a couch in your office."_

"_No one's coming in here this late." He lifts Leah and lays her out on the top of the car that needs a break job..._

"_Jake," she moans, legs wrapping around his waist as he grinds down against where she's so soft..._

"_Jake."_

"Jake!"

"Man, wake the hell up!"

Blinking, Jake focuses on his present surroundings and sits up, rubbing his eyes. "I'm awake, I'm awake."

Seth scowls at him. "Do me a favour, dude. If you're going to fall asleep in my space, don't start dreaming about doing my sister." Without waiting for an answer, which is good because Jake doesn't have one, Seth spins back to the computers. He waves a hand at the row of monitors.

"We got a problem."

Getting up to get a closer look at what Seth is gesturing at, Jake frowns. The stuff on the screen makes little sense to him.

"Are those...property records?"

"Yep."

"Okay, good, you're in. So what's the problem?"

"Problem is I can access any records of any piece of property in this town, except one."

Jake heaves out a slightly frustrated breath. He's not surprised. Charlie was having problems as well. "Let me guess," he says dryly. "The Cullen house."

Seth grunts an agreement, fingers once again flying over the keyboard.

"So there are no records?"

"Oh, there is, it's just the most basic crap though. The rest, the actual stuff you want to know, is under serious lock and key." Seth points at the screen and a few more forms flash into existence. "As you can see—property survey forms, acreage, taxes,—it's all here. No leans, no outstanding mortgage or debt, entire place is free and clear, bought and paid for. Can't tell who owns everything, though, cause that's all hidden behind a ton of confidentiality legal mumbo jumbo. I did find out the property is being managed entirely by a law firm in...Vancouver, Canada. Has been for a really long time from the looks of it. At least since the early 1920's."

"So that must mean whoever does own it can't be a Cullen?"

"Nah, not really. Property is left to hairs all the time..."

"Heirs," Jake corrects automatically.

"Yeah, that's what I said, dude." Seth rolls his eyes, and Jake lets it go. "Anyway, sometimes property gets passed down through generations, but in wealthy families it just ends up being some asset on a piece of paper no one cares about or knows what to do with. It's possible whoever owns it now can't be bothered to deal with some run-down piece of shit in the middle of nowhere, or they're too old or too young, blah blah, so it gets left in the hands of lawyers."

"Okay. And?"

Seth settles back, fingers scratching at a pimple on his chin. "And nothing. I'm only making guesses here. I can't find out what the real deal is without some serious digging and illegal backdoor searches. Shit like this," he says, waving at the screens again" is a matter of public record. Anything else to do with the house, including who might be occupying it now, isn't."

"Is that normal?"

Seth makes a face. "How the hell would I know?"

Jake mutters a low oath, despite the fact it makes him a hypocrite for giving Seth hell for doing the same, and rubs a knuckle across his heavy eyelids. He's so damn tired it's hard to think straight. Seth shrugs at him in apology.

"Sorry. If I was taking a guess, I'd say the bloodsucker living there now likes his privacy."

Jake blinks at that. "Bloodsucker?"

Seth grins, making Jake wonder if the kid is trying to yank his chain.

"Sure. Cold one, vampire, the undead, bloodsucker, leech..." Seth's grin gets bigger.

Jake playfully swats him on the side of the head. "Ass."

Seth laughs, rubbing where Jake smacked him. Something in the kid's eyes though makes Jake pause and not join in. A flash of emotion, darting and quick, comes with the smell of nervous sweat.

"Quileute legends and so-called history aside, answer me a question, Seth, and be honest. Do you really believe in all that stuff?"

"Nah. I mean, not really." He's evasive with eye contact.

"Not really?"

Seth shrugs, picking at a loose thread on his ratty jeans.

"I don't believe it. But I don't _not_ believe it either."

"I don't even know what that means, kid." Jake's not surprised to hear how tired he sounds. Seth's comment just makes him more tired.

Rocking his chair and making it squeak in little rapid-fire shrieks, Seth gives him a bit of a glare.

"It means there's more to this life than just what you think you know. I've been all over the internet. There are tons of stories around the world from every culture, and they're all the same. Supernatural stuff exists."

Jake tries to grin and lighten the moment. "Things like werewolves, Seth? Cause according to all the Quileute beliefs, I should be howling at the moon by now, sprouting fur and claws, hunting down all those bad-ass vamps."

His attempt at humor backfires when Seth suddenly stops rocking the chair and leans forward, staring hard at him. "Maybe or maybe not. I mean, maybe stuff skips a generation or two. Or maybe you just didn't have a reason to change. You know, they say that can only happen when you're like, going through puberty and shit."

"And clearly I'm not going through puberty anymore." Jake snorts, trying not to let the clawing itching feeling in his gut ignite his already frayed temper.

Seth goes back to squeaking the chair, but he's still watching Jake like a little smart-mouthed hawk.

"No, so that means it's too late for you. According to the legend, you're way too old to change now. I mean, all those stories about Ephraim nail that fact down hard..." He trails off and grins. "Doesn't mean you aren't still a bit of freak, though, or do you never think about that, Jake?"

"And just how am I a freak, Seth? Enlighten me, please, oh-wise-one."

Seth ignores the sarcasm and disbelief. "Ever since I've known you, you've been different. Bigger, stronger...hell, look at you, dude."

"I ate my vegetables like a big boy and never smoked pot. Shit stunts your growth, you know."

Seth's complexion gets a little darker, though he ignores the jab about his habit and his short size and stature.

"You've looked like you were twenty-five since you were fifteen. You're faster than anyone I know, way stronger, and you've got freaky senses. Damn, man. I Febreezed the shit out of this place a half hour before you showed up, and I haven't smoked since this morning, and still you come roaring in here barking at me about how it stinks."

"Again, vegetables. They're good for you. And pot stinks. Air freshener isn't going to get rid of that smell."

"My mom was here twenty minutes before you. You think if she smelled pot I'd be sitting here right now talking to you?" Seth laughs. "Yeah, right."

"Whatever, kid. You've been reading too much crap on the Internet, and listening to too much of the shit people around here like to peddle. Your mom is just blinded by the fact she thinks you're her little innocent baby. Better tread careful or you're going to break her heart."

Seth has the grace to look guilty for a minute, and Jake uses the distraction to get the conversation off his 'freakiness' and back on the topic of why he's here in the first place. "Can we quit with the fairytales and get back on track?"

Seth slumps in his chair, looking slightly sullen. "I'm not saying I believe everything. I'm just saying there's stuff that can't be explained away as easy as you want it to."

"Fair enough," Jake answers. He's heard all of this same shit from his dad too many times to get overly upset about it. It would figure the kid's been around Billy lately—which makes sense, since Sue's taken a place on the tribal council.

Heaving a sigh, Seth spins his chair around, scooting his way back to his computers in a crab-like shuffle, wheels grinding in protest.

Jake drags a hand over his face trying to clear his head before making his way over to the old harvest-yellow fridge in the corner. He pulls it open, hoping to find some water bottles, or better yet a can of soda. His mouth is dry, and he needs something to do while he decides if it's worth it to dig in Seth's head and search for brain matter. He knows the kid's smart, but then again, brains and common sense don't always go together. Regardless, it's clear Seth's been brainwashed. Shame that. Jake always thought this generation of Quileute kids were smarter than others. That they just might kick the habit of buying into legends and save what's left of a dying race of people.

Cold air wafts out at Jake as he inspects the contents of a surprisingly packed fridge. He eyeballs cases of water, tons of soda, snacks and—_jackpot—_beer. Jake snags one, noticing it's the kind Quil drinks. Cracking it open, he takes a long drink and an even longer look around the room. He wonders if Seth is involved in Quil's little marijuana business. Staring at all of Seth's hardware, Jake suddenly realizes how naive it is for him to 'wonder' anything. The proof is all over this room. A huge new flat-screen TV, the half dozen computers, the fancy headphones and gear, the well-stocked fridge—it all spells money, and money is something Seth wouldn't have access to without having his hands in someone's pockets.

Jake curses mentally, rubbing under his eye where a small nerve twitches annoyingly. He's spent the last year reeling over his break-up with Bella and putting all his time and energy into his shop, but that's no excuse. He should've been looking out for Seth more. The kid has too much heart and not enough good influences in his life. As much as Jake loves Quil—they've been friends since childhood, even before Jake's mom took him and his sisters and left the reservation—he's not blind to the guy's faults. Like so many others in this community, poverty and a lack of jobs and education means a dead-end life. Quil's doing what he thinks he has to do to get ahead, and damned if Jake will condemn him for it. But this? Bringing Seth in? It doesn't sit well with him at all.

It also reminds him that Quil is dodging his calls and his inquiries into the guy named James Jake learned about from Jess Stanley. Newton was apparently running some drugs, too, and this James was supplying him. What does Quil know that he's hoping to avoid telling?

Shit. How deep is Quil in, and how far has he dragged Seth?

Jake tips his head back and sighs. He can't do this now. He's got other more pressing things to deal with. Like finding Bella and getting her home where she belongs.

"Anything?" he asks Seth, going back to watch the kid scroll through things that appear and disappear too fast for him to understand.

"Nope."

"Dig harder."

Seth sighs. "Jake, I don't know...I mean..."

"Dig. Harder."

Heaving a beleaguered sigh, Seth turns on some more monitors. "Fine, but you owe me, big. This crap is highly illegal. Not to mention hacking a Canadian law firm's records is tricky shit."

Patting Seth on the shoulder, Jake grins a little, wanting to ease the tension still lingering between them. "Even for you?"

Despite himself, Seth grins. Jake can see the sudden gleam in the kid's eyes reflected off the once again blank screens.

"Yeah, maybe not so much for me."

. . . . . .

Dawn breaks with a renewing of the persistent sunlight so foreign to these parts. All traces of the storm from the night before evaporate under the increasing heat. Edward watches a sunbeam strong enough to penetrate the dirty window spotlight dust motes in the air.

He sits on the ratty Victorian chair, one leg crossed over the other, his thoughts scattered in a million different directions. His vampire mind races in analytical paths faster and more efficient than even the laptop balanced on his knee. He's taken care of a dozen things this morning already: financial matters pertaining to all his current investments and holdings, procuring breakfast for Isabella, fetching the car from where he left it, inspecting his property and all its borders, ensuring no one has ventured where they're not welcome.

Leaving Bella alone and defenceless, even for the few minutes it took to accomplish those outside tasks, wasn't easy for him. The uncomfortable feeling it created lingers, making him restless despite the fact she sleeps only steps away safe and secure. His attachment to her continues to grow.

He swallows the last dregs of his bagged blood breakfast, Carlisle's forced '_generosity'_ even less palatable for its cold and stale state. Staring at the sticky residue in the cup he poured it in does nothing to make it more appealing.

The remainder of the bags in their Styrofoam coolers have been moved to the cold cellar, a relic of a room that once housed similar blood a century ago, though then they'd kept it in jars.

The sustenance does little to curb his thirst under the presence of Isabella's perfuming and pervasive scent.

He needs to hunt soon. The idea of animal blood appeals even less than the congealing donor blood he consumed, but the idea of a hunt has nothing to do with feeding. It's only to curb the inner beast that demands the thrill of chase and capture, the animal instinct in him that needs to tear into flesh and drink from a living creature. If not for Isabella, he'd hunt a more desirable meal. Even in a place this small, evil exists.

Shaking off thoughts not conducive to the morning ahead of him, or the lamb upstairs just now rising from her slumber, Edward awaits the human who has changed his path so drastically. It will be interesting to see which Isabella will confront him this morn. A continuation of the warm, willing creature who seemed on the cusp of accepting her fate last night or a new awakening of the stubborn, willful one who so boldly attempted to defy him, both by running away and by challenging his every attempt to possess her.

He thinks of the passion they shared mere hours ago as he listens to her rummage through the bag he left by the bedside. She'll be confused by its presence, probably believing the items she packed in her foiled attempt at escape to have burned along with the atrocious truck she used as her getaway vehicle. He smiles darkly at that memory, regretting nothing, despite the extra complications his actions begot.

The shower starts, and Edward returns to his tasks, moving money from an offshore account into one more easily accessible. A confirmation email arrives, and he appraises it quickly. He's taken steps to charter a small plane. Finances to ensure its readiness and storage at a private hangar just outside of Forks have been verified and accepted as payment due.

Edward is nothing if not pragmatic. His escape routes are all in place, the small, lightweight Lear Jet just one of many contingency plans, although by far the most luxurious.

He skims more emails, noting little of further importance as Isabella makes her way down the stairs. The scents of shampoo and soap mingle nicely with her natural fragrance, sharpening his thirst and hardening his cock as he remembers just how good she tastes and feels under his hands and mouth.

She steps into the room, pale, wary, and indefinably beautiful, damp hair spilling down her back and over shoulders bared by a summer top with only the thinnest of straps. White knee-length shorts adorn her lower half. Her feet are bare, her skin free of make-up, and still, without a doubt, she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. She nibbles a lower lip, still red and plump from the ardor and kisses they shared, and Edward surveys the places he bit that are unclothed, pleased to see that she heals well under his care to seal every wound he's made.

"Good morning, Isabella." Despite the lingering sleep still in her system, her gaze takes him in with care.

"I thought maybe you'd be gone," she says quietly. "Mornings seem to be your kryptonite. I wake up and poof, you vanish."

Edward links his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, regarding her with a wry smile. She expressed a similar fear last night. It would seem her attachment to him is growing as well. "Be careful, lamb. If I didn't know better, I'd think such a sarcastic comment implied displeasure at my absences."

"Hardly. I'm just commenting on trends." Her reply is acerbic as her gaze skips over him and the laptop, then around the room. Her posture has lost its flight or fight stance, but she's hyper-vigilant and on guard.

"Hmm. Well, I ask forgiveness for my past behaviours. I will endeavour to be more...present in the future." He teases her lightly, watching every nuance of body language, not missing the way she fidgets despite the slight bravado and attitude in her tone.

"I ordered you some breakfast," he tells her, indicating a tray on the small table beside the chair. "I wasn't sure what you'd like so I ordered a few selections from the menu." He points at the omelet made with spinach. "Perhaps start with the eggs. You need the iron."

"I'm not hungry."

Edward ignores her denial. "There's orange juice and organic decaffeinated tea. Drink them both. You need the fluids."

"I said..."

"I heard what you said, Isabella. Eat and drink anyway. You consumed little at dinner yesterday. A human body needs frequent fuel."

"_My_ body needs time to wake up, and coffee," she retorts, emphasis on 'my.' Her nose wrinkles as she picks up one of the cups holding the tea.

Edward notices the stubborn tilt to her chin. It would seem a return of the willful, prideful Isabella is before him, though something more confident and less unsure seems in place as well. Her demeanour is rife with caution, but she isn't running. Progress at least.

Setting the cup back down, she scans the other contents of the tray to discover a small metal carafe filled with the beverage she seeks. Her expression betrays her delight. Despite the fact he has no idea how such a foul sludge can hold any appeal, Edward is glad he thought to include it.

"French pressed," he informs her, having no idea why that should make her eyes light up. One form of foulness over another is still...foul, regardless of how it's prepared.

"Where did you get French pressed coffee?"

She fills the small mug he provided and adds several heaping spoons of sugar, along with two rich creams in their common little cups. She tastes with trepidation then adds still more sugar.

"The Forks Diner was most obliging in my requests. Apparently the owner prefers this type of coffee, and she suggested it as an addition to my order." He watches her stir in another spoonful of sugar, the sweetly noxious scent overpowering and cloying. "Is it the coffee you like, Isabella, or the abundance of sugar?" he asks, truly perplexed.

She looks at him sharply, as though defensive—perhaps she's been asked before—and he arches a brow at her curiously.

"Both," she finally answers; ostensibly biting back whatever reply she meant to give. She takes a drink and hums a sweet sound of pleasure, her eyes closed, savoring. When she opens them again, the directness of her gaze is almost challenging. Or it is until her stomach growls loudly. Edward laughs lowly as her cheeks turn pink.

"It would appear your body is overruling your stubborn mind, lamb. Eat your breakfast."

She places the mug of coffee down with a soft sigh then grudgingly picks up a fork and attacks the omelet. He watches her for a moment, pleased, enjoying the tiny respite from argument.

He's forced to turn his attention back to the computer when a new email alert pings softly. He opens it, frowning slightly at the message displayed.

Jenks, ever diligent, notifies him that Seth Clearwater is currently trying to hack into the records concerning the very house Edward sits in—has, in fact, been at it for a few hours already. Leaning back in his chair, Edward ponders Jenks' question.

**Action requested?**

Even with the limited system Edward has at his current disposal, he could cut young Mr. Clearwater off at the knees, shut him down and keep him down for a long time to come. It's tempting. A few mouse clicks and the little Quileute hackers system would come to a crashing halt, leaving an internal mess that would render his hard drives useless. He doubts the boy has the financial means to replace his equipment.

Put Jenks on the task and the boy would suffer more than a hard drive crash; he'd find himself the subject of a federal investigation facing several cyber crime charges.

Tempting also.

Unfortunately, Edward wishes to stay low-key. Drawing attention from any source doesn't fit with his plans.

Not now; not yet.

Sighing, Edward sends a return message, simple and succinct.

**Block and evade.**

During his brief one-time meeting with Chief Swan a few days ago, Edward admitted to renting this house. For now, the only information either the Chief or the boy will discover will support this lie. His identity as Edward Masen is rock solid. Regardless, an elaborate system of evasion techniques that follow the letter of the law concerning privacy issues won't make the information easy to obtain for either of them, buying Edward more time to make his final decisions.

He wonders how long it will take, and who will be the first to show up at this door. The Chief or the dog? Given the terms of the treaty, providing such a thing is still respected...

Isabella interrupts his musings.

"So, what now?"

Closing the laptop, Edward leans back in his chair, turning his attention back to his prize.

She lays her fork down and places her hands on her lap. Her docile pose is countered by the confrontational question. When he doesn't instantly answer, she fidgets then rises to stack the dishes on her tray.

"My dad and...um...others will be looking for me." Edward doesn't miss the way she stumbles. His mouth quirks in amused irritation as he realizes she's still purposely avoiding mentioning Jacob Black.

"Yes, your father, and..._others,_ are quite diligently looking for you, as a matter of fact." She narrowly avoids dropping the plate she holds, fumbling as it slips from her grasp. He doubts she misses the way he pronounces 'others.' Duplicity requires intelligence, after all.

Placing the dish back down carefully, she turns to him. Her eyes are wide, pupils slightly dilated. They appear very dark against the backdrop of her pale complexion.

"They are?" She swallows, her nervousness scenting the air. "How do you know?" Suspicion narrows those wide eyes.

"Isabella, I've made it my business to know everything about you. Do you think I'd be careless about keeping tabs on those closest to you?"

She sits back down, heavily. "You're watching them? How?" She stares at the computer in his lap, and he nearly smiles at the changing expressions on her face: dismay, confusion, suspicion, and finally, anger.

"I've been...monitoring their activities, yes." He leaves her question of how unanswered. She notices.

"You're not going to tell me how, are you?"

"If you insist, I will," he offers. "However, I think you're intelligent enough to know the details of how matter little. Suffice it to say I've lived a very long time, and in that time I've learned to use any and all resources. Modern technology has made things infinitely easier in that regard."

He waits as she assimilates this information.

"If you know my dad is looking for me, you have to know it's only a matter of time before he'll start doing things. Ridiculous over-the-top things, like forming search parties and putting out APBs. He has to be getting worried. Charlie is...protective, and he'll get help. He has a lot of connections." She stares at him intently, as though to judge the effect of her words. Edward simply looks back.

"I left without any explanation about where I was going."

He inclines his head, letting her know he's listening.

"With his connections, he'll be able to make a missing persons report before the seventy-two hours required."

"Of that I have no doubt," Edward answers lightly. "I have bought us time, however, by sending text messages to both your father and _others_, considerately letting them know you're with a friend in Seattle."

She frowns. "They won't trust a text that comes from someone they don't know."

"I'm hardly that foolish, Isabella. The texts were sent from your cellular number." He reaches into his pocket and produces her phone. She stares at the object in consternation.

"I thought that was...lost."

"Like your bag that held the clothing you wear now?" He smiles, challenging.

She frowns, avoiding. "So you used my phone? Pretended to be me?"

"It was slightly more complicated than that," he corrects "but essentially, yes."

"I don't know anyone in Seattle."

"On the contrary. You know me, and we _were_ together in Seattle."

Again Isabella's lower lip vanishes beneath her teeth. He can see her mind working. Intelligent little lamb ignores his flippancy and moves on quickly.

"He'll find out about the truck."

"He already has."

She starts slightly at this, clearly not expecting it. Edward isn't surprised given the heat of the fire she witnessed burning that heap as they left it behind.

"Oh, my god. He must be...freaking out!"

"Well, in a fashion," he amends.

"What does that mean?" Her tone is exasperated.

Edward stifles amusement. Her temper is showing in the way she fists her hands in her lap.

"He's concerned, but not 'freaking out,' as you put it. I took steps to ensure that should your truck be identified, its destruction won't be linked to you in any way."

She appears confused. "How could it possibly not be linked to me?"

He ponders how much to tell her. It goes against his very nature to be as forthcoming as he grudgingly realizes he must be with her. A long moment passes in silence. Isabella simply stares. _Stalemate_.

Delight in her once again mixes with frustration. He offers her a simplified explanation.

"A stolen vehicle report was filed in your name, Isabella. Of course it's fake in reality, but on paper it's real enough. The time listed on that report states the claim was made hours before the truck was actually attended to by the Seattle fire department. Your father is aware only of the theft. No connection has been made. Should that change, the assumption will be that the fire was set by the thief."

For a moment Isabella's mouth gape opens. She shuts it hard with an audible snap and rubs her temples. "So let me get this straight. You somehow made a fake police report in my name?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I have people in my employ with varied positions and skills. It was a surprisingly simple task."

She drops her hands, shocked. "People?"

"Yes, Isabella," he replies dryly."People. Regular humans with useful attributes willing to do my bidding for large sums of money." He preempts any thoughts she might have that he has terrified slaves locked in a dungeon beneath their feet. He also leaves out the fact that with the exception of Jenks, fear of the unknown is an even greater motivator than the money.

She says nothing, though he notices her shoulders relax somewhat.

"Are you not going to ask _why_ I went to the trouble of establishing a fake report?" He can't keep the humour from his tone. Her insistence on not uttering that interrogative remains steadfast, even now. How odd. It must be something deeply ingrained. Such a puzzle she is. A veritable feast for all his senses.

Her relaxed shoulders move upwards in a brief shrug, though it's clear she does want to know.

After a short minute of silence, she makes an attempt to discover the answer. "I guess you were covering your tracks?"

He makes a derisive sound. "Hardly, Isabella. I was covering yours."

"Mine?" Her smooth brow furrows in greater confusion.

"Yes, yours. I would not have you implicated in the destruction."

"No," she replies with a sigh. "Just witness to it, right?" The dryness to her tone leaves no doubt as to her feelings.

It's Edward's turn to shrug, feigning apathy when what he feels, what he reveals, is the polar opposite of indifference. "You call on emotions I haven't felt in a very long time, lamb. Affection, interest, frustration, jealousy." He lets the last hang in the air, full of intent to break new ground if she chooses.

She doesn't.

He can sense her mind racing, even if he cannot track the thoughts. Rising to her feet, she crosses to the window beside him and stares out at the expanse of forest surrounding them. "Edward, whatever this is between us, you can't..." She trails off.

"I can't what, Isabella?"

She blinks rapidly, fighting her emotions. Brave little lamb. She levels him with a look that pierces through the layers of years spent suppressing anything remotely good about himself.

"You can't hurt the people I care about to keep me."

Moving the laptop from his knee, Edward places it on the floor by his side before leaning back once more. The fingers of his right hand tap a dull rhythm against the arms of the too-delicate chair, the fingers of his left scrape his jaw thoughtfully.

"You can't," she repeats, taking a small step closer to him, interpreting his silence as a will to do exactly what she attempts to beseech against. Fear colours her tone. "I'll do what you want, whatever, just...don't..."

"Isabella, be still!"

She instantly quiets and freezes at his sharp tone. With a sigh he rises, surprised at just how displeased he is with her begging and offering anything to him based solely on the barter of others' lives. If she understood how inept her father and that mutt truly are perhaps she would change her mind. Edward has had her for nearly a day and they are so utterly stupid they haven't found her yet. Were he in their position, he would have already moved heaven and hell and anything in between to get her back. They are a waste of space in his opinion, can she not see that? But, no, of course she can't. Not her. She is too good, too caring. Traits he oddly likes in her, despite the lack of having them himself.

He closes the small distance between them and cups her quivering chin in his hand. His hold is firm, though his thumb automatically strokes the softness of her cheek, seeking to soothe her.

She tries to pull away. Beneath her fear and concern she's a kitten with extended claws wanting to lash out.

He tightens his hold, the pressure tempered with utmost care not to mark or cause pain, just enough to let her know who is in control. "So. You would bargain with me? Offer your complacent agreement to all my demands in return for the promise of the safety of your father and Jacob Black?"

Isabella's eyes widen, her heart quickening its beat.

"Oh, yes, I know all about Jacob Black and the role he's played in your life, little lamb," he informs her. "Just as I know that at this very minute he has a child named Seth Clearwater attempting to divine exactly who is living in this house."

He drops his hand, and she licks her lips, fingers twining together before her, wringing and worrying.

"Seth is...trying to figure out who you are?"

"Industrious boy," Edward adds grudgingly. "He won't find anything beyond what I want him to find, but that's hardly the point. Between your father and your ex-lover, I've been kept equal parts amused and irritated by their bumbling attempts to put two and two together."

Isabella blanches at the term 'ex-lover.' "I don't understand. Why would they be looking into you? I never told anyone about you."

"You didn't need to, lamb. Your attempts to deny me have made your behaviour erratic. Coupled with the investigation your father launched into Newton and his...disappearance, as well as the fact we were seen in public together the night we first met, and the arrows point here, to this house which hasn't been occupied in over a century, and me, the only newcomer in town."

Taking a tiny, hesitant step back from him, she crosses her arms over her chest as though to protect her most vulnerable parts. Edward dislikes the stance. Have they not yet passed this interminable point of mistrust?

"You haven't answered me," he reminds her, tired of explanations and circles of useless conjecture. "Are you offering yourself up to me in return for my promise of their safety?"

She swallows tightly and nods warily. "Isn't that what you want?"

A low growl builds in his throat, and she takes another, less hesitant step backwards. Stifling his anger, Edward allows her space and turns to the window she was just gazing out.

"I think once I would have wanted exactly that, Isabella."

His cryptic statement hangs in the air between them for a moment.

"And...now?" she asks after the silence stretches out to the point of tension.

Edward sits back down, studying her closely. "Now, after the time we shared together last night, perhaps I'd hoped we were moving beyond the need for threats." The naked truth in such a statement surprises him, and judging by the way she stares back at him without blinking, her as well.

She hugs herself tighter, dropping her gaze to her feet. Their bareness against his wood floors highlights her incredible vulnerability, and that special something tender he only feels for her flares to renewed life within him. He wishes she wanted to stay with him. He wishes she felt...affection for him. He wishes for her...love.

The realization makes his lip curl, the growl he suppressed rippling free, low and angry.

Love? What a useless emotion, crippling and pathetic, and even if it was not it's something he's ridiculously unworthy of. He's never sought it, never wanted it, and now?

She could be his ruin, his one and only weakness, and still he cannot bring himself to let her go.

He shoves aside the ridiculous notion of love and swallows back the growl. She watches him like a wary cat. His fingers resume tapping on the arms of the chair.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she tells him quietly. There is no heat in her words, only true lack of understanding.

"I'm not going to harm your father, Isabella." He chooses not to answer her question, having no desire to provide her with a script, though it would make things easier.

She relaxes a bit at his confession, though not entirely. "And Jake?"

"Jake," he sneers, allowing disdain to leak into his voice. "Do you know what he is?" he demands suddenly.

Isabella drops her arms, frowning. "_What_ he is?"

Edward's sudden laugh is loud and abrasive, echoing around the nearly empty room. "No, of course you don't. I'm beginning to wonder if he even knows. What other explanation is there for his dismal failures? If he was remotely attuned to his nature, he would have found you already."

Shaking her head, Isabella holds up her hands. "Wait. Just what are you saying?"

Weighing options, Edward opts to pry. "Have you never noticed anything different about him, lamb? Never heard legends from his _people_?" He watches her expression carefully and doesn't miss the surprised flicker of realization dawning.

"Ah, you have," he muses, narrowing his gaze at her. "Legends about werewolves and cold ones perhaps?"

"Stories," she utters, her tone choked by a sudden dryness of mouth and throat. "Just stories."

"And yet here I am, something more than just a story, don't you agree? Though I prefer vampire to cold one. It's so much more...accurate."

"Are you trying to tell me Jake is a werewolf?"

His derisive bark of laughter makes her jump. "Not quite. He's a halfling, Isabella. Had I, or another of my kind, come to town a decade ago, his change would've been inevitable, but clearly that never happened. So he carries the gene, but he cannot change shape or become a wolf."

Placing her back to the wall, Isabella slides down until she sits on the floor. Her head drops to her knees.

"Are you really that surprised?"

It's her turn to laugh derisively, though it lacks volume. "I don't know what I am. Certifiable maybe."

Edward sighs. "You are many things, little lamb. Mentally deranged is not one of them. We covered this, remember? Let's not backslide."

She gets up as fast as she sat and begins to pace.

"So let me get this straight." Finished crossing the room she spins on her delicate heel and returns on the same path. "The Quileute legends are actually...true. Jake's a real...werewolf."

"A halfling, and technically more in the variety of a shapeshifter," Edward corrects, slightly enthralled at her whirlwind movements and palpable frustrated energy. "Think of him as a stunted runt unable to reach his full potential. I do."

She waves a hand at him in a shushing motion, scowling. Stopping dead in her tracks, her shoulders slump, and she raises her hands to cover her face. "Wow, I really know how to pick 'em," she mutters.

He can't suppress a smile at that statement. She never seems to do what he expects. A normal human would be nearly catatonic with fear, perhaps well on their way to being the 'certifiable' individual she seems to fear she will become. She is merely perturbed, however.

She drops her hands to glare at him. "You think this is funny? You've turned my entire life upside down, and now you've just pointed out that I seem to have some perverted magnetic pull on supernatural...monsters!"

Moving back to the sofa, she sits heavily. A small cloud of dust exudes around her at the pressure, and she waves her hands at it, coughing slightly.

"How long has this couch been here?" She asks, distractedly.

"A while. The exact date..."

"Never mind." She scrubs slightly at her cheeks, groaning. When she lowers her hands, Edward has moved in front of her, wondering if this is the moment she will crack under the pressure. Instead, she tips her head up at him, clear eyes flashing displeasure and consternation.

Her stubbornness and strength are both the bane of his existence and a great source of pleasure.

"I need to go home."

Tentatively, unsure how she will react, Edward reaches out and runs his fingers lightly over her left cheek all the way to her jaw. He's done this so often she accepts the gesture easily. Pausing on the curve of her chin, he watches her, pleased at how she no longer flinches or tries to pull away. She is taming, whether she knows it or not. Her skin is warm and soft. Such a precious creature she is.

"I have a job. I need to work. I'm scheduled today for noon." She emphasizes every word, though her tone fails in reaching an authoritative octave, and he can feel the fine tremors of anxiety thrumming in her nerves. Her desire to challenge him is exceeded only by the caution ingrained in her kind when confronted with his.

Brave, brave little lamb, standing up to him. He cannot ever remember any human having her nerve, not even the sociopaths incapable of emotions whose lives were ended by his hand. They all caved to fear in the end. Not her. She is truly remarkable.

A strand of hair curls close to her jaw. Edward moves to grasp it, letting the silky, resilient little twist twine around his finger tip.

"I have bills to pay, a house I have to look after, laundry to do."

Her pulse jumps, the vein in her neck a throbbing little metronome that soothes him while he listens to her advocate for her freedom with a sundry list of chores. Drawn to it, he releases her hair and skims one finger across the sweet spot. A prickle of goose bumps breaks over her throat and across the skin that covers her collarbones. Her breathing changes at his caress.

"I have responsibilities and obligations, Edward." She swallows as his touch moves lower, exploring the tiny hollow at the base of her neck.

"I need to at least call people, let them know I'm okay before things get out of hand. Charlie and...Jake won't buy that I'm in Seattle for long, if they're buying it at all. You have to know this."

At the mention of the dog's name, Edward drops his hand, his displeasure rippling over his psyche in waves. His attention flits to the sight of the dust that left the sofa. It's settled around her like a chalk outline only his eyes can see. He's reminded again of how unsuitable this place is for her, how unready.

"You could...come with me."

Surprised at such an offer, his gaze snaps back upon her, inspecting her expression for motive. If only he could read her mind.

"Are you inviting me to your home, Isabella?" His mouth curls upward in pleasure, aware that her invite comes under duress but pleased nonetheless.

She nods. "I doubt you're going to let me go on my own." Her tone is slightly caustic.

Edward gives in and laughs. "Oh, lamb. Your tenacity and spirit are something else." Once again he strokes fingers over her neck, moulding his hand around the smooth, fragile stalk gently. "You're right though. I may concede that allowing you to return home at this point would be the proper thing to do, but nothing's changed between us."

He feels her swallow, feels the slight shudder that quakes through her and understands its divided cause. One half of her remains apprehensive, the other...? Well, the spike of her heart rate is not solely nerves, not with the lush scent of her physical response so apparent. Not when she makes no attempt to pull away.

"You're mine. You know this now, do you not?"

For a second he thinks she will argue. He cups her chin and tips her face upward so that she cannot hide. The answer is clear in her expressive eyes, but he wants to hear the words.

"Are you not," he repeats, not phrasing it this time as questioning. It's a demand, and she answers perfectly.

"Yes."

In time, the sadness he witnesses in her confession will become a thing of the past as she learns the joy he can bring her, the rewards being his will entail. For now, though, her yes is more than enough for him.

In fact, it's everything.

. . . . . .


	19. Ayartma

A/N It's been a while, guys. Sorry. I write when I can, and when I feel up to it. Thank you to all of you for being patient and supportive while I wrestle with my health demons. I WILL finish this story, so bear with me.

Thanks to Team Prey, beta extraordinaire, Saritadreaming, and pre-readers Popola and RubyLou, for all your hard work and insightful advice. This chapter has undergone many revisions and rewrites, additions and deletes, so please note mistakes are a result of that and not a reflection of their skills or competency.

Special thanks to Fernleaf for early reading and always being so wonderful, not to mention making me laugh and smile on Twitter. xo

. . . . . .

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

**~xx~**

_And we cling to the past  
to deny and confuse the ideal._

Chapter 19

**Ayartma**

. . . . . .

Bella stands in her bedroom staring blankly at the bag she placed on her bed. She finds it comforting to be home, surrounded by familiar objects. Since nothing's changed except her location, she realizes it's a false sense of comfort. Still, it's a step above being at Edward's. His giant old house felt like an empty mausoleum, filled with secrets from a past she still can't fully comprehend. Her mind refuses to wrap around Edward's true age or the new knowledge that events that took place over a hundred years ago are true—werewolves and vampires and treaties and Jake, God, poor Jake...

Bella pulls out the clothes she wore yesterday, the rain-stiff fabric stirring up an onslaught of memories, only adding to her emotional turmoil.

_Edward's hands on her in the meadow. Her back against that tree, his teeth in her neck..._

_Last night, in his house, in his bed. Such tenderness, so much feeling and pleasure._

Her nipples pull tight beneath her bra, and a sweet ache settles between her legs.

She moves to shove the clothes in the hamper, vowing to do laundry as soon as she can, though she doubts Tide and vanilla scented Downy fabric softener will wash away the inescapable fact that, for whatever reason, her mind and body cannot agree about Edward.

Even now, standing here in this room with him only steps away, moving around her home like he owns the place, she feels the ache in her chest—a dull reminder that should she get any farther from him, the slight discomfort she feels right now will quickly become a vast sucking cavity of unease and pain.

The ache already seems worse, as though her body wants to punish her for not leaving this room and going to him.

She tries to breathe through the constriction, but the stuffy air feels like it isn't giving her the oxygen she needs. Moving to the window, she shoves the curtains aside to yank it open, grunting as the old wooden frames stick in their humidity swollen casings. The muggy air now pouring inside isn't worth the effort she expended or the beads of sweat that trickle uncomfortably down her spine. Huffing, she lets the curtains fall back in place, feeling a sudden tightness in her throat that heralds self-pitying tears.

_Screw that_, she thinks angrily, refusing to succumb to useless crying. Bundling the heavy mass of her hair in a messy knot, she returns to emptying her bag, agitated, her movements jerky.

Dumping the last of her belongings, she tucks them tidily away, taking another measure of comfort in the familiarity of having her deodorant and toothpaste back in her bathroom's cramped little medicine cabinet, her toothbrush back in the holder, standing solid and solitary.

_Would Edward put his toothbrush beside hers? _

_Do vampires brush their teeth? _

She washes her hands and dries them, staring at her reflection in the mirror, bothered by this strange turn in her thoughts. Is she already to the point where thinking of Edward as a vampire doesn't send her off the proverbial deep end, she wonders?

She stares hard at herself, searching the familiar lines of her face. Her fingers skim over her lips, feeling how sensitive and warm the flesh is. She can still taste Edward on her tongue, still feel the cool marble-like glide of his mouth against hers as he kissed her so deeply the breath spilled right out of her lungs, slipping out in little mewls and pleas she never knew she had in her.

In Edward's arms, when he's taking her, driving her past any point of pleasure she's ever known in her life, demanding she give him everything…_God_. It's like nothing she's ever learned about sex and lust. Like all she knew before was a weak facsimile of real desire and passion. She's never truly understood the dark cravings in her sexual nature—definitely never explored them. They were only just...there. Little whisperings of unease, tight, tender-sensitive longings for something more than what she shared with Jake.

Sex with Jake was...good, really good, but...polite. A meeting of bodies, each cognizant of the others needs. You touch me here... I'll touch you there... an exchange, a warm tumble, usually ending with mutual release that was...satisfying and sweet. It was...nice.

With Edward, _nice_ does not exist, only heat and need and her complete submission. She gives him everything he demands. She doesn't have any limits. There's nothing _'polite'_ about any of it. She blushes. Merely thinking about it now makes her tremble.

Bella shakes her head, watching her reflection do the same as she reflexively swallows and battles the need battering at her.

There is so much more to this than..._sex._ She has to remember that.

This is her life, not some reckless affair. And Edward's not a man. He's an inhuman predator, a killer, someone who's toyed with her and turned her world upside down.

He's stripped away her right to make choices.

All her life she's fought for control, the right to govern her life. Her independence is the trait she respects most about herself, and even more, it's the only thing that saved her in a world where it was imperative for her survival to be strong and in charge.

Her autonomy was forged to steel in the fires of a childhood navigated by a mother with a mental illness. She could never control where Renee might lead them, but she could control how they arrived and survived once they got there.

She reminds herself of that now as she stares at her reflection. She's no longer a child. She's a grown woman.

Was she ever really a child? The face has changed, the body, but the eyes staring back at her seem exactly the same, though perhaps a little more haunted.

No, she was never really a child. Fate saw to that when they gave her parents who met too young, married too young, had a baby too young, then sent it all to hell by divorcing and never caring much about the daughter they made suffer through their mutual dysfunctions. Charlie and his inability to see Renee's problems as an illness and not just the selfish desires of a woman he no longer cared to live with. Renee and her inability to accept the help offered her time and time again from multiple sources.

Bella spent her entire childhood learning to fend for herself and care for Renee, her youth balanced on the whims and moods of a disease you couldn't see and couldn't truly fight. She learned to do what she could, to be the one that called the shots, to trust only herself. She managed the money so they wouldn't get evicted from the endless apartments they'd lived in; she managed Renee and her medications and endless extreme moods. She kept Renee alive until Phil came into their lives, finally giving Renee the incentive to properly manage her illness.

Nothing changed all that much when Bella came to live with Charlie at the age of sixteen. Charlie lived in some strange stasis of time, the house untouched from when Renee had lived there. It seemed he barely managed to take care of himself, a sad bachelor who never used the dishwasher because he didn't know how and couldn't be bothered to learn, his cholesterol through the roof because he ate almost solely from diners and fast food joints.

Bella moved in and took over, shopped and cooked for him, washed his clothes, cleaned his house, managed the household bills and chores.

Nothing changed at all when she left and moved in with Jake. She just learned to manage two households, and she took care of them both. She stayed in control. Life was dull and predictable, but it was safe, steady, constant, hers.

Until now.

Until Edward.

Feeling a shiver of unease skate down her spine, Bella forces her thoughts away from her past to present matters. Like Charlie and Jake and how she's going to handle them. More importantly, how she'll explain her new houseguest once they inevitably discover Edward cohabitating with her.

She closes her eyes, feeling lost and hating it. How does she control the uncontrollable?

When she opens them, Edward is there as if her worries conjured his presence. He stands in the doorway, casually leaning one shoulder against its frame, his expression closed. As she watches and waits, something flickers in his eyes, changing him from a cold observer to someone warmer, more human. He has so many facades. She wonders which one is the real Edward.

He moves into the small bathroom and into her space, eyes narrowing on hers, studying.

"What are you thinking that brings such sadness?"

He's too observant. Bella shifts away, attempting to gain a little space between them without being noticeable. "I wasn't thinking anything." She's not ready to let him in. He hasn't earned the right to her private thoughts.

His eyes flash. She notices the red rings around his pupils seem darker today and wonders what it means. It's such a subtle change, and yet she notices where others probably wouldn't. He's a chameleon, constantly adjusting his colour to fit his mood.

"So many secrets behind those pretty eyes," he murmurs, more to himself than her, frowning like she's a lock he longs to pick.

She moves around him and back to the bedroom, disconcerted that he reads her where so many others simply think she's introverted or boring. The pull of him is stronger now when he's closer. She's not giving into it, though. Not with so much uncertain. What they shared last night hasn't changed his refusal to let her have free will.

She works hard to hide the desire she feels. Being back in this room, the still-rumpled sheets twisted across her bed, only serves to remind her of everything that's happened in the last week. God, has it only been a week since her life went off the rails?

A slight shiver works down her spine despite the heat. Warmth spreads everywhere else, centering between her legs with a sudden and intense pulse of want.

She knows her cheeks are red, so she keeps her head down. Edward laughs softly and quietly behind her, a short amused sound that conveys he knows where her thoughts went even if he can't read her mind. Bella picks the now empty duffel bag up off the bed, making a pretense of checking one of the zippered pouches on the side.

"I need to call Charlie and… Jake. Let them know I'm home. Buy a little time before they come banging on my door demanding answers," she tells him, risking confrontation to avoid questions about her mood, avoiding eye-contact.

Edward reaches out, taking the bag from her hands and tossing it to the corner of the room where it lands haphazardly. He spins her to face him, pulls her in tight until she's pressed so close she has to tilt her face up to see his. His expression isn't hard to read. He's fuming, and the hissing sound he makes proves it.

"I dislike the sound of Jacob Black's name coming from your mouth." One of his hands moves from her waist to the nape of her neck, burrowing through her hair to get to her skin. His grip is tight and possessive, yet the thumb that spans out to stroke the flesh over her pulse is, as always, contradictory and gentle.

Bella remembers his bite in that exact place, and her breathing quickens. Her pulse seems to have him mesmerized. At the sound of her drawing in air, his eyes flash back to hers, darker now. It makes her shiver, again, though not in the way she knows it should.

His gaze drops to her mouth, and he grins. The smile has an edge to it that does startling things to the nearly painful ache between her legs. It's like he's touched her. She gasps, closing her eyes, fighting the pull of him though it hurts. Oh, how it hurts—sharp like talons in her chest, yanking her open.

The hurt surprises her—it's new, different, sharper. Somehow directly related to the physical pull of him she's trying to resist.

She exhales, masking what she feels behind exasperation.

"I can't help you don't like it, Edward. I do need to call him and Charlie both. Unless you want them to show up here? They'll do that anyway, but maybe I can delay the inevitable."

Edward frowns, his eyes scanning her face. She wonders if he noticed her momentary pain, then decides he probably did. Rather than explain what she doesn't understand, she attempts to step back. Of course he doesn't let her go.

"I haven't figured out how I'm going to explain you," she says, testing the strength of his hold by leaning away. It's like iron. "Or…_you_ haven't _told _me how _I'm_ supposed to explain you." She lets the bitter frustration she feels leak into her tone, frowning at him. Her hands move, flattening against his chest. His muscles are like stone, defined, impossibly solid, no give at all. He could break her in half, crush her, yet last night when he moved over her, inside of her, he was so gentle, so attentive to making her feel good. Better than good...

A slow grin tweaks his slightly cruel mouth. "How would _you_ like to explain me, Isabella?"

"I don't have a freaking clue," she snaps, losing patience with the way she can't seem to stop wanting him to do bad,_ bad_ things to her. She knows he can read how she's feeling. As if to prove this, Edward presses her closer, his right leg pushing forward until she's forced to open her legs to accommodate him. The pressure against her sex sends little darts of heat curling upwards into her belly and breasts.

His head dips, and he nuzzles her mouth, breathing in the air that escapes her in a needy rush, part whimper part moan. His lips move to her cheek, leaving a cool path that feels deliciously good. Bella's hands fist in his shirt.

"You should tell them who I am, lamb. Truth is best, don't you think?" He's teasing her. She should be infuriated, but his lips whisper across her earlobe then drift lower, skating down her throat to her shoulder. Light kisses and soft drags that make her tingle all over.

"That you're a vampire?" she asks incredulously, tone caustic, her hands clenching more shirt. She's equal parts frustrated and turned on, so conflicted she's trapped, unable to pull away or allow herself to move closer.

She feels Edward smile against her skin. His fingers move from her nape to grip the messy knot of her upswept hair, gently pulling so her neck is more exposed, slipping kisses back up.

"Perhaps not quite that level of honesty." He leaves her neck, lifting his head to look down at her. She tries to appear unaffected and fails miserably, or so she believes if the continued darkening of his eyes and the heat of his expression is any indicator. His thigh presses upward, right where she hurts for him. It's all she can do not to moan and rub herself against him like a cat in heat.

His smile grows, like he knows she's struggling with her resistance. "I think we'll delay a face-to-face meeting with the half-mongrel from your past for a day or two. It's probably best he lives in denial of what he is for now. Your father, however, only needs to know what I am _to you_."

"What exactly _are_ you to me?" As soon as she asks, she wishes she could take the question back. How many times does she need to hear she's a possession, an object he thinks he owns?

Edward stays amused. "Such a loaded question, beautiful lamb. In simplest terms, I'm your master and your lover. How you choose to phrase that to your father, I'll leave up to you. Boyfriend, perhaps, will work nicely. That is how humans today define the male in unmarried pair bonds, is it not?"

Bella jerks her head back and resumes pushing on his chest. His answer is a step above pet at least. Still, the title of "master" puts her far beneath him, again. She's surprised how much it stings.

Surprisingly, Edward loosens his hold, giving her room to breathe easier. Unfortunately, the wickedly appealing smell of him goes straight to her head, muddling up all her intentions of resisting.

"You want me to tell Charlie you're my... boyfriend?" She sounds choked, and it seems to amuse Edward further, though she catches something else in his expression as well. Pleasure, she realizes. He seems as though he _likes_ the word—or the idea at least.

"It's the easiest explanation," he replies.

"There is nothing easy about you or any of this," Bella snaps, wiggling to see if she can get free now that he's not holding her as tightly.

He chuckles, the hand on the back of her neck sliding down her back. When he reaches the base of her spine, he exerts pressure, regaining the space he let her have.

With her body once more pressed to his, Bella quits fighting, giving in to the fact he's stronger, and she's only squirming like a fish on a hook. That she likes the way being this close to him feels doesn't help her mind frame at all.

Sighing, she shakes her head, planting her palms firmly against his chest again, striving for clarity. "Boyfriends aren't masters," she mutters, aware she sounds petulant and not caring.

Edward smiles again, evidently finding her all kinds of entertaining, a fact that's making her a little crazy.

"Look. I'm just not sure that'll work." She strives to reason with him. "Charlie is going to be suspicious. I don't date. I haven't dated...since...well. I just haven't. And this is a small town. Everyone knows everyone else. It's going to seem weird if I'm suddenly in a relationship with you." She bites her lip, worrying the flesh. "It might be better if I just tell him we're friends."

"And when he drives by late at night and sees my car in your driveway, all the lights out?" he asks, running his thumb over her bottom lip in a slow back and forth touch that shouldn't feel as good as it does.

She pulls her head back, trying to evade the maddening sensation. "I'll tell him you're staying on my couch for a few days while your house is being... I don't know... worked on, whatever."

The grin Edward flashes at this is electric. Bella wants to lick the thumb he's still stroking lazily over her lip, draw it in her mouth, suck on it, bite it. The urge is strong. Resisting it makes the ache in her chest return. It's all she can do not to wince.

"The explanation for why I'll be staying with you has merit, truth works well after all, but 'friend' is an unacceptable misnomer. I won't have him, or anyone for that matter, mistaken about my claim on you, Isabella."

Her stomach tightens at the idea of telling Charlie that Edward is her _boyfriend_. His grin grows at her noticeable dismay.

"Come, lamb. Surely you cannot object to calling me your boyfriend. Not after the night we shared."

"Charlie doesn't need to know about that," she replies, horrified, trying hard to keep her voice even.

"What he does or does not need to know aside, lamb, he will know."

She can almost feel the colour drain out of her face. "What? Oh, my God. You can't mean to tell him!"

"Of course I wouldn't speak of it."

Bella barely has time to relax before he continues.

"I won't need to tell him, Isabella. One look at you and he'll know, if he's any kind of man that is."

"How would he know? That's ridiculous. You haven't left marks on me. I checked. And speaking of which, where are the marks? Shouldn't there be marks...scars...something?" She waves her hands around her neck before letting them smack back down against his chest, aggravated by the endless mysteries surrounding whatever this is between them.

"No marks, Isabella. Not ever," he answers, his expression hard before softening into something tender. "I wouldn't scar your beautiful skin. I enjoy the unblemished loveliness of you far too much to chance marring a single inch."

She ignores the flowery compliment that should make her roll her eyes, demanding, "Then how?"

"I'm more careful of you than you realize," he answers flippantly, his features settling back to that closed-off look he seems to favour. "Back to the topic at hand." He taps a finger to the tip of her nose playfully, yet another disarming move that throws her off kilter as he flashes a stunning if practiced smile. "You cannot hide the flush on your skin or the desire in your eyes when you're in my presence, lamb. He won't believe platonic friendship with you standing beside me radiating sexual satiation."

Embarrassment at the way he says that, the way it makes her feel, and at the fact he's probably right, combine to make her furious. "You're such a smug...bastard." The instant she says it, she wonders if she's gone too far. He's dangerous. Despite her preconceived notions that he won't hurt her, there are others to consider. Besides, he's completely unpredictable.

He proves it by smiling, untouched by an insult most would be pissed about. "I'm never humble about things I know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Bella shoves against his chest, this time with marked insistence. He disregards her completely, sweeping down and claiming her mouth in a soul-stealing kiss that melts all her arguments. She quits struggling, and the ache in her chest evaporates instantaneously. Edward growls like he senses it as he licks the little uninhibited moan she can't repress from her lips. She can feel herself melting into him and both hates and loves the way it feels. Abandonment is so simple, so easy, so dangerous.

Edward breaks from the kiss slowly and with noticeable regret, making her less self-conscious about the way she's clinging to him.

"As much as I'd like to continue this, little beauty, you've made demands I agreed to meet."

"I did?" She didn't think he was agreeable to anything, let alone anything she might have asked.

"Calling your father and the halfling dog. Going to your place of employment? Any of these things ringing a bell, lamb?"

"Right," she answers, taking a step back from him, regaining control of her faltering willpower and senses. The ache returns, and she rubs her chest, distracted by her nerves. He misses nothing, following the movement and frowning. Dropping her arms quickly, she feigns an all-is-well attitude she doesn't feel.

"I should call Charlie first."

Edward produces her cell from his pants pocket, turning it on for her. "Use this. Do not use your land line. Tell him you're on your way home. It will delay any confrontation until you're ready to see him."

Bella accepts the phone, taking instant issue with Edward's rapid fire instructions. A part of her wants to argue while another part recognizes the futility. She takes a deep breath, surprised at how nervous she is, and dials quickly before she can lose what little nerve she has.

Charlie answers on the first ring, and judging by the way he says her name, he's not happy.

"Bella?" He also sounds worried, and she instantly feels guilty.

"Yeah, Dad, it's me."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home." She stares at her feet on her worn bedroom carpet as she blatantly ignores Edward's instructions, palm sweating around the phone casing. She'll handle Charlie and this situation her way, regardless of consequences. Besides, she's a lousy liar, and Charlie has a tendency to see straight through her. The closer she can stick to the truth, the better.

"Sit tight," Charlie barks, oblivious to her inner turmoil and adding to it greatly. "I'll be over soon as I can."

"I won't be home." Bella nervously rushes the words right over Charlie still talking. He can't show up here. She's not ready for that.

Edward smirks, clearly listening, clearly willing to watch her struggle with the consequences of disobeying him.

"Bella…"

Ignoring Charlie's warning tone, she keeps going, turning her back on Edward who is only making her nervous and mad. "I have to go to work. I just wanted you to know I'm back. You're probably wondering about Jake's truck…"

It's Charlie's turn to cut her off. "Damn right I'm wondering. You take off, no warning, no explanation…"

"Dad…"

"You don't call, you don't answer your phone, _and_ you let some stick-up-his-ass detective from Seattle PD inform me Jake's truck got stolen…"

"Dad! Listen. I'll explain everything later, okay?"

"You're not going to work at that place, Bella Marie."

His abrupt topic change throws her.

"What?"

"You heard me. I'm still trying to find Mike Newton. This is an active police investigation. You stay away from that store."

It's all she can do not to scream even though she knows Charlie is making a valid point. She's just so fed up with being told what to do.

"I have to at least speak with Mr. Newton," she tells him, striving to keep her tone calm because Charlie only responds well to logic and reason. "I've worked for him since my senior year. He's not Mike, Dad."

Charlie exhales roughly, and Bella continues.

"I also need to pick up my last paycheque. If I'm unemployed, I need the money."

Charlie huffs again, but Bella can tell she's won, money and its necessity something Charlie can't argue about.

"And listen. I'm tired. It's been a long few days. I need some space, but maybe I can come by the house tomorrow, okay?" She sweetens the pot, hoping to drag Charlie into a complacent place. "I'll make you dinner. Lasagna, your favorite. And I'll explain about the truck and…everything else."

Bella dares a glance over her shoulder at Edward, then instantly wishes she didn't. He hasn't moved an inch. Everything about him is intimidating and compelling, including the mocking stare and the upward curl of that sinful mouth. He's either amused or contemplating retribution—probably both.

Bella looks away and listens as Charlie grunts an agreement, heart in her throat.

"Fine."

She breathes a little easier until Charlie continues.

"I'll call Jake. He can take you to Newton's."

Behind her, Edward reacts for the first time, a low sound coming from him that can't be mistaken for anything except pure lethal menace.

Spinning, Bella holds up her hand, like she can somehow control Edward, pleading with him silently not to react as she keeps trying to reason with Charlie.

"Dad, no, don't do that."

"Bella…"

"I'm serious. I'm exhausted. I have a headache. I'm not in any mood to deal with Jake right now. Please, Dad." She hates resorting to pleas and playing on Charlie's poor weak-little-woman theories, but she has to keep him from calling Jake.

"I don't want you going to Newton's alone."

"I won't go alone," she responds quickly. Her eyes meet Edward's, and she feels herself beginning to cave to the inevitable. It's like crumbling on the inside, the feeling unpleasant as the pieces of her prized independence fall around her like so much rubble and dust. "My...friend is here."

"Right. Guess she drove you home?"

Bella's heart stutters. She wonders if Charlie truly assumes the made up friend she was supposedly staying with in Seattle is female or if he's fishing. There's something about his tone of voice that makes her think it's the latter, which is weird. Charlie has been steadfast in believing it's only a matter of time before she gets back together with Jake. As far as she knows, other than that brief moment where he worried it was possible all those pictures of her in Mike's bedroom might have indicated there was something between them, Charlie's has never entertained the idea that there could be anyone else for her.

Dropping her gaze from Edward, Bella chooses to ignore the opening to come partially clean. Charlie's inadvertently given her another choice, and even though it's a blatant lie, she gratefully accepts a temporary way out of explaining Edward, even if it means once again ignoring what he told her to do. Trying to stay as vague as possible, she settles on replying with a simple "Yeah," confirming only - in her mind anyway - that the 'friend' drove her home.

Charlie's quiet for longer than seems right, reinforcing her concerns, then he huffs out a short breath. If he really is suspicious, he's letting it go for now. "All right then. You make sure this friend sticks with you. Keep your talk with Mr. Newton short and to the point. Don't get into any kind of a discussion about Mike or those damn pictures. You hear me?"

"Yeah, Dad. I hear you."

"Good. And call Jake later," he orders. "I get you want some time, but he's been worried sick. I'm not going to lie for you if he calls me first, got it?"

Edward makes another sound of displeasure, this one louder. Combined with the fact she thinks Charlie might have added emphasis to the word "lie," Bella knows she needs to get off the phone, fast.

She can't tell for sure if Charlie suspects anything, but her conscience isn't resting easy telling half-truths. Her throat hurts as she hurriedly mumbles something agreeable sounding, then hangs up. The disconnected call creates a hollow, empty sound on her end. Closing her eyes, Bella turns the phone off, feeling small and incidental under the pull of so many forces.

She opens her eyes to see the most prominent force standing in front of her, and wonders how the hell she's going to deal with any of this. And just how much trouble she's in for not doing what Edward told her to.

The thought that she's bought herself a little more time is a small victory. At least Charlie is safe for now, and maybe, just maybe, if she can figure out how to tame a volatile vampire, she can keep him that way.

. . . . . .

Jake wakes up with a crick in his neck and a shitty taste in his mouth. The musty old sofa probably wasn't the best place to crash. Given his other choices of driving all the way back to Forks and the cramped little apartment above his garage, heading to Billy's to cram himself into his childhood bed, or to Leah's to face her wrath for dodging her calls all day, Jake opted for musty and uncomfortable.

Seth, banging away on his half-dozen keyboards and squeaking the wheels of his dilapidated chair, actually made a pretty soothing background track.

Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Jake stares at his watch, surprised to see it's nearly nine in the morning. He's been out for nine hours?

"Shit."

The garage is a weird combo of damp and stuffy; it's also quiet. Seth is nowhere to be seen. One of the monitors is lit up brighter than the others, and Jake reads the words on the screen.

**Program's running background checks. **

**Gone home to get some sleep. **

**Folder on the desk has the info you want.**

Jake gets to his feet, shaking his head at the way Seth operates. God forbid the kid use pen and paper.

His curiosity on high, he gets the folder and opens it on his way to the fridge where he nabs a Pepsi, hoping to Christ the caffeine and sugar help him kick the lingering exhaustion out of his system. He takes it back with him to the sofa, sinking down and flipping it open, rapidly perusing the contents.

Not much there, but there is a name.

Edward Masen.

Not Cullen.

Interestingly enough, Jake almost feels let down. He might not believe in the treaty or anything else, but it would've made things pretty damn interesting if some Cullen descendant had shown up to reclaim the house. Jake grins. Billy would have shit a brick.

Makes sense it's not a Cullen, given the fact according to what Seth found, this person is renting the property at a steep monthly price. A Cullen wouldn't need a rental contract.

Instead, it's some guy from Maine. Seth didn't find out much. Info on the renter was sparse. Guy paid a hefty deposit and signed a lease for a year, apparently agreeing to oversee extensive renovations.

No personal details at all.

Info on whoever actually owns the house currently is even sparser. In fact it's nonexistent, buried under legalities Seth either can't or won't breach.

Fucking typical, Jake thinks scathingly. Information like that either way wouldn't be floating around for anyone to find. Especially when money isn't a factor, which it obviously isn't with property as huge and prime as what the Cullen mansion sits on.

Jake glances at the monitors. Two have gone black, one still has Seth's message to him, and the other's seem to have some kind of auto-program running, obviously searching the "background" Seth mentioned in his note.

Probably looking for more details on this Masen, Jake surmises. Seth is like a dog with a bone once he gets going. He won't be happy with the paltry bits he managed to unearth on this Edward dude.

Edward.

Jake searches his memory about the treaty the reservation is so up in arms about. Wasn't there an Edward listed as one of the names? He spins the small snatches of remembered facts through his head but can't come up with anything. He's just never really paid close attention. Not that it matters. Edward isn't exactly an uncommon name—a little old-fashioned maybe, but generic. Though he imagines whoever this Ed is, he's either old or some nerdy professor type.

All Jake knows is, learning the name hasn't given him answers about why Charlie's nosing around the Cullen house in the first place.

Jake drains the last of the soda, a headache already building behind his eyes. He drops the papers back in the folder and pulls out his phone, his head spinning with more questions than answers.

Another missed call from Leah, two from Billy.

Nothing from Bella or Charlie.

No news is good news, he thinks, trying to ease that tight core of worry he generally feels about Bella, but for obvious reasons is worse now. He shoves his phone back in his pocket, thinking about all the things he needs to get done this morning.

Regardless of the "no news is good news" feel, he needs to touch base with Charlie, but that can wait till later. And Leah's probably so far beyond pissed it won't matter if he doesn't call her right away, either. Stopping by Bella's is a priority. Jake knows he'll be crossing a line he can't uncross, but he wants a look at the address book he recently remembered she used to keep in her nightstand drawer. It might just contain a number for this mystery friend in Seattle. He's a little pissed at himself for not thinking of it sooner.

Right now, though, all that's going to have to wait because he needs food and a hot shower, not necessarily in that order.

"Two birds with one stone," he mutters, getting to his feet and grabbing the folder to take with him. He might as well head to Billy's for that shower and, in the process, get his father off his back for a little while. Not to mention get up to speed on whatever the hell vibe is going down with the tribe worrying over who's in the Cullen house. It wouldn't be the first time shit went off the rails thanks to superstitious beliefs.

After that, Jake plans to track down Quil. He's had enough of Quil dodging him. Whoever this James and crew are, they just might help him find Newton. And if it's true Newton was running drugs, no one better to know the what, where, how, and who than Quil. He just hopes to hell Quil's not involved in any of that. Growing marijuana and selling to recreational users is one thing, but the shit Mike was into, sounds like something else entirely. As he looks around at all the expensive tech gear, the feeling Jake has that Seth and Quil are into shit their naive asses shouldn't be in, only gets worse.

He takes one last look at those monitors Seth left running and the streams of unreadable text and images flashing at vision blurring speed across their screens. He feels as if he's missing something. Overlooking some tiny piece of the puzzle that could prove crucial... It niggles at his consciousness, but whatever it is, it's slippery, like trying to grab a damn eel. He shakes his head, chalking the feeling up to the crappy night's sleep and the shitload of problems on his plate. The lowest item on that list as far as his priorities go, is anything to do with the Cullen house.

He tosses the empty Pepsi can and leaves the garage, hitting the lights on his way out and locking the door, stomach growling, his mood deteriorating by the second. With everything he has to do today, it'll be a miracle if he gets to his shop before late afternoon to run the business that should be his only damn priority.

Maybe if he trusted Charlie and the law to actually find Mike Newton and keep him from hurting Bella...

Maybe if Bella hadn't run off and gone off the radar...

Quil thinks Bella is moving on, and that she isn't Jakes to protect anymore. Quil, and anyone else with that opinion, is missing the damn point. From the day Jake first met her, two months after his mom died and he found himself back on the res, just a scared, lonely kid, Bella has been his one and only constant.

She was his friend first, eventually his girlfriend, finally his lover, but always his inspiration and his anchor in every storm

She was with him when he discovered his passion for auto mechanics fixing up two old dirt bikes for them to ride. She helped him pass his small business course, staying up with him till all hours in the weeks before his finals. She was there by his side when he opened his shop.

She's the only person who knows he crawled into a hospital bed with his mom and held what was left of Sarah as she slipped out of this world, just a scared fifteen year old kid trying to help her leave the world with love and some kind of fucking dignity. The only person who's seen him cry when he visited Sarah's grave on his twentieth birthday with his mechanic certifications and business degree in hand, wanting to show his mom he did what she asked and made something of himself. Bella stood there with him in the pouring rain, and she held his big hand with her little one so tight the ring she wore left an imprint on his flesh that lasted for hours. When he broke down, sobbing so hard he couldn't stay standing, Bella knelt on the soaking wet ground, wrapped her arms around him and cried with him.

She was his first crush. His first kiss. His first love. His first broken heart.

So it doesn't matter if she's his or not. She's Bella, and that's all she needs to be for him to move heaven and hell to make sure she's safe.

His stomach clenches hard, frayed nerves making him wish he had time to go for a run or hit the gym. An hour with a punching bag, or better yet a sparring partner who could take a serious beating, would probably help clear his head.

Jake grits his teeth as he crams himself into the Rabbit. When Bella gets home, he'd vow to turn her over his knee and spank her heart-shaped ass red if he didn't know she'd punch him in the mouth for it.

Might just be worth it, though...

Christ, just, please let her be okay. At this point, he doesn't even give a shit if she's with some other guy, just so long as she's safe.

. . . . . .


	20. Skušnjava

**A/N** Thanks to team Prey - Beta Saritadreaming, pre-readers Popola & RubyLou. You guys are the best.

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

**. . . . . .**

_Drowning in a sea of rage,  
I taste the embrace._

. . . . . .

Chapter 20

Skušnjava

. . . . . .

In contrast to the sweltering heat outdoors, the air-conditioned air inside Newton's Outfitters makes the assortment of jackets on an overstuffed rack to the right of the door, highly appealing.

Bella shoes squeak against the shiny laminate flooring as she makes her way between displays of bear repellent and marked down first aid kits, trying not to focus on Edward behind her. He's been quiet since her phone call with Charlie—not that she gave him a chance to speak after she hung up. To avoid confrontation, she grabbed her wallet and keys and darted for the door, telling him she needed to get to the store, even though it was only a few minutes past ten.

Edward, surprisingly, followed without comment, maintaining this even as she tried to insist he didn't need to drive or even come with her at all.

She tried to reassure him she wouldn't run away again.

She babbled, and he listened, holding the car's passenger door open, head cocked slightly to the side, eyes intent on her. When she finally quit, he just waited.

Bella got in the car.

He stayed quiet through the drive, only giving her that irritating and disarmingly attractive half smile when she tried to convince him to stay there while she ran in.

Now, passing the familiar shelves crammed with everything the sporting enthusiast could ever need or want, Bella's stomach cramps at the thought of facing either of Mike's parents, especially with Edward in tow. If she wasn't so desperate to get away from the confines of her house, worried about a confrontation after blatantly going against his instructions for dealing with Charlie, she would've probably phoned in.

Steeling her spine, Bella forces herself forward and finds Mr. Newton Senior rummaging through a small box behind the checkout counter. She instantly notices he looks exhausted and older, his graying hair lank against his forehead. He hasn't shaved in days, she'd guess. Her stomach cramps harder when she realizes the box is full of missing person flyers plastered with Mike's picture.

Edward makes a sound that's distinctly growly, and Mr. Newton's head snaps up, gaze zeroing in on him instead of her.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't realize anyone came in. Can I help you?"

Edward tips his head in her direction, and Mr. Newton turns. Surprise at seeing her seems to hit him hard. He reels back a step and exhales in a rush.

"Bella."

"Hi, Mr. Newton. I..." She suddenly has no idea what to say. Belatedly, she realizes this is a mistake. She knows too much, and she's a horrible liar. Faced with his apparent grief, she feels sick.

"Bella," he repeats, appearing equally lost. He closes eyes that are red-rimmed and puffy. His breath smells like alcohol. Edward steps closer, and Mr. Newton snaps those tired eyes back open.

"I...wanted to call you, dear." Mr. Newton shakes his head, looking down at his flyers. He startles and awkwardly flips the top batch over, trying to conceal what she already saw. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to hear from me, or if it was wise to speak with you under the...circumstances."

"No, I understand. It's why I decided to come in. I know I'm scheduled to work today. Obviously, with everything..." she trails off, wishing she was anywhere else. Her palms are sweaty, her mouth dry. She doesn't understand how Edward can be so cool, knowing he's responsible for all this obvious grief.

Mr. Newton blinks like an owl. "Bella, dear, surely you don't want to continue working here with all that's going on. It wouldn't be...right."

He's correct. She doesn't. Being in this store makes her skin crawl. She's been so lost in her confusion surrounding Edward, she hasn't processed Mike and the things he did, least of all the things he could've done.

Bella opens her mouth to agree and request her last paycheck so she can leave as quickly as possible, when Edward intercedes.

"I believe a severance package will be in order."

Mr. Newton's head swings to Edward, mouth opening in surprise. "I didn't say I was firing her."

Edward leans into the counter, and Mr. Newton blanches.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Edward Masen. I'm a friend of Isabella's." Edward emphasizes "friend" and turns his head to smile slightly at Bella, his expression momentarily mocking.

Bella blinks, realizing she didn't know his full name before now. Masen. Not Cullen.

An alias? There's so much about him she doesn't know…

Edward returns his attention to Mr Newton, and speaks slowly. "You no longer need her services, and you're letting her go. You're going to give her any pay you owe, a glowing letter of reference, and severance pay." He rests his forearms on the counter, and Mr. Newton shuffles back. There's nothing outwardly threatening about Edward's movements, but the aura of menace around him somehow makes it clear the counter between them isn't a safe barrier.

"A _generous_ severance pay, Mr. Newton," Edward continues, still speaking in that quiet, silky voice. He doesn't need to raise the volume; "or else" is implied in every syllable.

"Edward..." Bella tries to intervene. She can speak for herself, though admittedly she wouldn't have thought of asking for severance pay.

Edward ignores her. "And when I say generous, Mr. Newton, I do mean, generous." He flips the top flyer face up and stares momentarily down at it before looking up at Mr. Newton, his point apparent.

Mr. Newton turns slowly back to Bella, his complexion paler. For a moment he appears sorry, as though he understands how unfair it is that Bella should lose her job because of _his_ son. He nods once and reaches with shaky hands for the chequebook by the cash register. Before he can fill anything out, Edward takes it from him and scrawls a number too quickly for Bella to read. He spins it back around with a graceful wrist flick, an aggressive curl to his mouth.

Mr. Newton stares at the check for a long moment. When he finally looks up, his eyes skate back and forth between her and Edward. Frustrated curiosity makes Bella reach out, intent on seeing the amount, but Edward captures her hand. His clasp is gentle yet firm as he draws her arm down, using it to tug her close to his side.

"Date it. Sign it." Edward's instructions are clipped and hard, a direct contrast to the careful way he's handling her.

Mr. Newton keeps his eyes glued to the check as he begins to gush in apology. "I'm sorry, Bella. I'm so sorry for what Mike did. The pictures, the following... I don't understand what was in his head, but my son is a good boy—he's just...sick. He's not well. You understand? We'll find him and get him help, and you'll see he's not capable of truly hurting anyone." He lifts his head, expression pleading, like he wants her to agree. Bella's stomach cramps harder, and she wonders if she'll be sick. Just throw up right here right now. Splatter vomit all over the shiny glass counter and the multitudes of flyers plastered with Mike's grinning face.

Without warning, Edward tugs her back, moving to block Mr. Newton's pleading face from her view so that all she sees is Edward's strong back in his iron gray shirt. He keeps hold of her hand, pressed tightly against the back pocket of his dark jeans.

"Enough," he says in a way that doesn't encourage anything except compliance. He lowers his voice. "Don't plead for her understanding. Sign the check."

Bella hears the scratching of the pen and then finds herself moving, pulled back to Edward's side as his feet propel them both to the door and out it without a backward glance or word.

She has to hurry to keep up.

"Do you think that was wise?" she asks, her nerves frayed. "You were totally confrontational, and you keep showing your face to all these people. Aren't you worried about them making connections, figuring things out? Did you see those flyers? They're looking for Mike, and you and I both know he's...and you..."

Edward squeezes down on her hand warningly, and she clamps her mouth shut, tamping down rising hysteria.

"The only thing I'm worried about, Isabella," Edward replies, "is leaving you for one second unprotected in this fucking, damned town.

They reach his car, and he opens the passenger door, only then releasing her hand so she can get in. When he slides into the driver's side, she's disoriented when Edward sits gripping the wheel with fists clenched so tight she hears ominous creaking and popping sounds. He's seething. He slams the gearshift in drive and tears out of the parking lot, heading away from town rather than back towards her house.

"Distract me," he suddenly orders through clenched teeth.

Bella jumps slightly in her seat, watching him warily, not understanding this sudden mood change. "What?"

"Distract me," he repeats. "Talk to me."

"About?"

"Anything."

"I don't..."

"Distract me so I don't turn this car around, go back to that store, and tear that man's throat out."

"Edward! No, you can't do that. He's...it's not his fault..."

"Distract _me_."

Feeling the anger coming off him, Bella scrambles and says the first thing that comes to her mind.

"Thank you for doing what you did in there. I never would have asked for severance. I probably would've just quit and left with whatever he owed me, you know, pay wise."

Edward seems to ease slightly, the steering wheel quiet under his punishing grip.

She keeps talking. "I wasn't even thinking at all. I haven't had time to process Mike and what he did, taking all those pictures, stalking me. I put it out of my mind, and I'm just kind of now figuring out how messed up it all is, and how I couldn't work in that store after...with his parents and..." She pushes her hair back, shrugging as Edward looks over, his features slowly losing the hard set that reminds her he's capable of cold-blooded murder.

"Mike used to ask me to go out with him all the time," she adds unthinkingly, instantly regretting it when the steering wheel emits a new crunching sound. She rushes on anyway, unable to shut herself up with her nerves so scattered. "Back when we were in high school. He tried so hard to get me to go to prom with him, but I wasn't the prom type of girl, you know? I never went to prom."

"Why." He doesn't phrase it like a question. It's pure demand, and for once she doesn't think about not complying.

"I just didn't. It wasn't my thing. The dressing up in fancy clothes you'll never wear again. The stupid, painful high heels, the make-up and hair, the dancing." She forces a laugh. "I would have broken my neck just trying to walk from some ostentatious limo to a tacky decorated gym. I used to be a total klutz—like the most uncoordinated dork. I'm better now." Embarrassed at revealing so much, Bella shrugs again. "Anyway, it just wasn't me."

"Prom is a rite of passage in a human life."

"Prom is an excuse for bored girly-girl's to play dress up and the last few remaining virgins to get laid."

Edward looks at her, a slow genuine smile transforming his face. Bella feels that smile all the way through her body. It stuns her and warms her and leaves her faltering.

"So cynical, little beauty."

She shrugs, and his attention turns back to the road, the smile receding.

"What did you do instead?" he asks after a moment.

"Um... Just stayed home, alone. Ate junk food, watched a black and white horror movie marathon. Boris Karloff in _Frankenstein_, Fredric Marsh in _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. Bela Lugosi in _Dracula_. You don't act like _Dracula_ by the way, though there's a little _Jekyll and Hyde_ in you." Heat blooms in her face, and she wonders what happened to her filters. She used to be so good at keeping her thoughts to herself.

The right side of Edward's mouth twitches as his hands begin to relax their grip, one falling to rest on the gear shift, the other sliding to the ten o'clock position. His fingers drum lightly against the wheel.

She stares out her window, trying to find a sense of calm in this latest crazy before daring to say quietly, "Mr. Newton's not a bad guy."

Edward's jaw tightens instantly, though his hands stay relaxed. He takes his attention off the road again to look at her. She notices it doesn't affect his driving in the least.

"He knew, Isabella."

She frowns. "What?"

"He knew his son was unhealthily fixated on you months ago. He knew, and he didn't do anything to stop it."

. . . . . .

Edward watches Isabella's already pale complexion lose what little colour remained from her blushing confessions over prom.

"I don't understand." She curls her hands around the strap of her seatbelt as if she requires something to hold onto. "He knew?"

Edward fights the urge to comfort her, to offer his hand to hold. Such a ridiculous gesture, one he finds hard to resist. "Yes. He was aware," he tells her, granting upsetting information rather than comfort. "He found hundreds of pictures of you on the cretin's phone. He watched him often when you two worked the same shift, and he witnessed dozens of improprieties."

"What kind of 'improprieties?'"

Edward turns away from her wide eyes and pale features. The tremor in her lips makes him want to commit acts on the senior Newton very much like those committed against his son.

"Standing too close when you were occupied, smelling your hair when your back was turned, watching you constantly."

"You read all of this in his mind?"

"Yes." That and so much more, though Edward keeps the more damning evidence to himself. If she were to know it would only cause her embarrassment and upset. Comforting her is a foreign, awkward concept to him; shielding her from harm on the other hand is as instinctual as the breathing he no longer technically needs to do.

She's quiet for a very long time. Edward drives, his mind turning from rage at what could have happened to Isabella had he not come to town and ended Michael Newton's life, to cold calculation.

As if she's learning the way his mind works, Isabella adjusts her position in her seat so she's turned toward him, the knee of her left leg bent and tucked up so she has room to do so.

"Mike is..._was_...their only child, Edward. I don't think Mr. Newton would be able to wrap his head around what Mike was doing."

Edward doesn't answer. She's mostly correct, but where she views such a thing as a valid excuse for his failure, Edward only sees it as damning evidence the man is spineless and therefore a waste of space. That he dared to address Isabella and plead with her... His fury nearly ratchets back up.

"You're welcome."

Isabella stares at him, thrown by the abrupt change in their discussion. "Pardon?"

"You're welcome for ensuring the severance package." If possible, Edward would have gladly taken every penny the man has and placed it in her hand before snapping his weak neck. Instead, even in his rage at what he was learning second-by-second from the man's malfunctioning brain, he was forced to only slightly stretch the definition of generous, writing the check for fifteen grand—a paltry sum. A little less than half a year's wages for Isabella, not that she needs the money. He has more than enough to cater to her every need and desire for a dozen lifetimes.

It was only for show. A staged event for the sake of security cameras and Isabella's safety—her employment terminated with all the t's crossed and i's dotted. Edward kept his back to the cameras the entire time, and the system was cheap and unable to capture sound, ensuring his demands weren't recorded.

Removing the check from his shirt pocket, Edward places it in her lap. She stares at it and blanches.

"It's too much, that's..."

"A drop in the bucket to him, and less than what he should owe." He snarls the last word.

"I can't accept this." Isabella fidgets, the check clamped in one hand, biting her lip. "I can't," she repeats adamantly, as if he argued.

He personally doesn't care what she does with the pittance of a sum, still he tells her, "Your employment has ended through no fault of your own. Severance is your due, Isabella."

She stares at him with wide eyes. "I'm the reason his son is dead," she whispers.

Edward frowns, disliking the shattered look she displays. "You are not to blame for that degenerate's demise. His actions earned his death, and his blood is on my hands, not yours."

She looks out the window. "How can you say that, so casually, like it's nothing?"

"His life was forfeit for your safety. In comparison to you, he was nothing to me, ergo, his death is _nothing_."

Isabella is quiet for a long moment, watching the passing scenery, keeping her mysterious thoughts to herself behind that impenetrable wall in her mind.

"I should put this in the bank," she says finally, having reached some conclusion she doesn't share. "My mortgage payment is due."

His mood altered enough he feels his self-control return, Edward turns the car around and heads back into town to take Isabella to the bank, choosing not to remind her the money he placed in her account would adequately take care of her and her pittance of bills for months.

Instead, he surprises himself by reaching for her hand, craving contact and the feel of her skin. His thumb slides over her pulse point, oddly reassured by the rapid little tick of her heart. Thirst a dark burn in his throat, he lifts her hand to his face, running his nose over the swell of her knuckles and inhaling deeply. He surprises himself further by kissing her soft wrist, twining his fingers with hers before lowering their combined clasp to rest on her warm thigh. The tenderness she brings out in him is unprecedented and growing.

Isabella watches him, her breathing shallow, obviously affected by his touch.

"Does your head hurt?" he asks.

The question seems to throw her.

"Pardon?"

"When you spoke with your father, you told him you had a headache."

"Oh." She turns her head to look out the windshield and subsides into silence.

Impatient, Edward squeezes her hand. "Isabella?"

She sighs. "I'm fine, Edward."

He regards her, carefully taking note, and decides she's speaking the truth.

"Do you get frequent headaches?"

Isabella arches an eyebrow, turning her head. "Are you compiling my medical history?" she asks sarcastically, though a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He fights the urge to laugh at her mercurial temperament. "Your father seemed to cave quickly to your reasoning for avoiding him. This leads me to believe headaches are a familiar occurrence."

Shrugging, she drops her gaze and stares at their joined hands. "I get headaches from time to time, Edward. I'm human."

"I'm aware, Isabella."

Edward releases her hand to manoeuvre the car into a parking spot, and she unlatches her seatbelt, reaching for the door nearly before the car is adequately stopped. The automatically engaged locks prevent her from escaping, and she huffs in irritation, making him chuckle.

"Always so eager to escape me, lamb." If the perfume of her physical attraction and desire for him were not apparent, Edward just might be offended.

He reaches out, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck to pull her close for his kiss. He needs the taste of her, the feel of her breath warm and sweet in his mouth, the soft sigh she makes in the back of her throat the only thing that will banish the lingering unease he feels after visiting her workplace. Learning just how completely surrounded Isabella is by incompetence and stupidity has his every cold nerve-ending agitated.

She's stiff for a moment before she melts into his kiss sweetly, proof she's unable to truly resist their connection. Edward knows the time is quickly coming when he must take her away from here. The knowledge of the senior Newton's incompetence and compliance in the face of a threat against Isabella only heightens his awareness of her fragility. Keeping his exquisite mate by his side and safe from harm in a place like this, surrounded by idiots and ne'er-do-wells, is a task that's beginning to tax his patience.

He may just set fire to this entire town and watch it burn in the rear view mirror as they leave.

. . . . . .

The second Jake walks through Billy's back door, the vibe he feels is all wrong. That's because Billy's not alone. Sue Clearwater, Old Quil, and Sam Uley—all governing members of the Quileute tribal council—are all crowded around Billy's tiny kitchen table. Leah's here also, and from the looks of things, Jake's interrupting an intense conversation.

Billy wheels his chair around. "Wasn't expecting you this morning, son."

Jake resists the urge to state "obviously" and glances around the room. His gaze hits Leah and lingers, taking note of her mood. She and Sam Uley have a seriously screwed up relationship history. Leah tends to stay clear of him. Seeing them in the same room is odd, but what's odder is she doesn't appear overly upset by it.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, looking back at Billy. "I had a few things to take care of. Thought I'd grab a shower before heading back into town. Don't let me stop your little pow-wow."

He starts forward, heading for his old room, when Billy propels his wheelchair forward and blocks the way.

"Actually, why don't you take a minute and join us. What we're discussing includes you."

_Shit._

"Yeah, don't really have time right now, Dad."

"Make time. Leah made coffee. Have some."

Leah's already on the move, pouring a cup and bringing it straight to him. He takes it, cursing mentally at the double block.

Leah sticks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and says quietly, "I've been calling you."

"Yeah, sorry." He takes a slug of the coffee, noticing it's exactly the way he likes it—strong, black, and scalding hot. "Been busy. You okay?"

She shrugs, studying him while hiding her emotions behind her patent fake, bland smile. "Be better if you quit dodging me. We need to talk, Jake."

He nods, and she goes back to the table, sliding into her seat between Old Quil and Sam.

"All right, I'll bite." Jake does another scan around the table, his weird olfactory sense picking up bites of nervous sweat, stress and excitement. "What's up?"

"What's up is we have tribe matters to discuss, namely the return of a Cullen."

Jake takes another mouthful of coffee and shifts to lean his shoulder against the wall, crossing one boot over the other. Christ, he needs this shit right now like he needs a hole in the head.

"He's not a Cullen." His declaration is met with all heads snapping in his direction.

"How do you know?" Old Quil asks, a shrewd expression on his wizened face.

"I did some checking."

Billy gives Jake a look like he's just won a prize. "Finally taking an interest in your real life, son?"

Gritting his teeth to bite back things better left unsaid, Jake takes a second to tamp down his irritation before leveling Billy with a bored look. "I always take an interest in my real life, Dad, which is why I checked things out. It has nothing to do with any of you. This is about me helping someone I care about, not about ancient legends and bullshit treaties."

Old Quil starts to stand, knee joints popping, looking like he wants to take a strip off Jakes's hide. Sue puts out a hand to stop him. "What do you know?" she asks quietly, always the peace keeper.

Draining the last of his coffee, Jake stalks to the sink half wishing he'd shut his mouth. "Guy's name is Masen," he tells them grudgingly. "He's renting the place, helping to oversee construction and reno work being done by a big legal firm out of Vancouver. Apparently, the house and land is currently managed by them. Far as I can tell, there are no Cullen heirs taking any interest. Not even sure there are any heirs at all."

Jake purposely keeps from mentioning the name Edward. If he's right, and there's an Edward listed on that stupid fucking fictional treaty, he doesn't need to give anyone in this room additional ammo for their fixation. Coincidence makes for lousy evidence unless you're desperate enough to grasp at straws like this group is.

"Any of you ask Embry to look into this?" Jake asks, redirecting the conversation. Billy looks away, which means yes, he did. Sue, likewise, becomes interested in the swirls on the worn Formica table top.

"Embry won't touch this with a ten foot pole," Sam answers, meaning Embry flat-out refused to dig. Embry, like Jake, holds few ties to his Quileute history and feels even less loyalty. He comes to the reservation rarely and only to see his mom, when she's not hitting the bottle, which Jake hears isn't often these days.

Sam gets to his feet, downing the rest of his coffee. Like Jake, he walks the empty cup to the sink.

"So it's not a Cullen in the house. Guess that about ends this discussion," he states. He runs water in his mug to rinse it, and Jake resists the urge to grin at the downcast faces of the older individuals in the room coming on the heels of Sam's remark. Unlike Embry and Jake, Sam still lives on Quileute land. He's proud of his heritage, but it ends there as far as Jake has ever known. He heads up security for the reservation, taking care of disputes and doing regular patrols of the land, handling anything that doesn't require actual law. He's also the youngest and clearest thinking member on the tribal council.

Sam stops behind Leah's chair and puts his hand lightly on her shoulder. "You need anything, Leah, you know I'm only a phone call away."

He gives a gentle squeeze, and the hair on Jake's forearms stands up, his back straightening. He feels a strange growl percolate in his throat, and his hands fist as he swallows it back, mystified by his own reaction which is straight up kick-to-the-balls pissed, jealous, and protective. He glares daggers at Sam then finds himself taking a step forward and hooking his hand around the back of Leah's neck, putting himself in Sam's space, forcing him to prematurely step back. Jake's move says "mine" just as loud as if he spoke, and he has no idea why.

He catches Billy's eyes on him, clear interest all over his face. Jake doesn't like it, but it doesn't stop him from keeping his hand right where it is or giving Sam a glare that he knows comes across as a warning to back the fuck away.

Sam shoots him a speculative look before he turns on his heel and wisely leaves. That's when Jake notices Leah's gone tight under his hand, and Billy's not the only one looking at him strange. Jake forces himself to let go of Leah and catches sight of the clock over the fridge.

_Shit._ The day is getting away from him, and he really needs that shower. Maybe a blast of cold water will shock him into a saner frame of mind, though it looks like he's going to have to pass.

"Jake." Billy begins to back his chair away from the table, clearly not thinking this is over.

"I gotta run. I've got a lot to do today."

"Thought you wanted a shower?"

"Out of time, thanks to this crap. You guys done poking your nose into innocent people's business?"

Sue blanches, and Old Quil mutters something unintelligible under his breath. Billy finishes backing his chair up and glares at Jake. "Don't you think it's weird after all these years of that house being abandoned and falling down on itself, it's all of a sudden occupied?"

Jake shakes his head. He should have known Billy wouldn't let things go easy. "Dad, drop it. It's not a Cullen—that's all you need to know. If you're determined to stick to the rules of this so-called treaty, just stay off the land the same way you always have. You've got no reason to be in this guy's business."

Sue gets to her feet. "Let's just adjourn this meeting. There's no point in arguing."

Jake shakes his head. "Why is any of this even on the table for discussion in the first damn place?" he asks, patience snapping and curiosity getting the better of him.

"You're so ignorant to the way of things, Jacob Black," Old Quil grates out hostilely. He struggles to his feet, shaking off Sue when she attempts to help. "This is your legacy, boy. Your history and your people. You should..."

"Enough, Old Quil." Sue cautions, her tone quiet yet firm.

Old Quil makes a derisive and unattractive sound in his throat. He glares at Billy, things unspoken passing between them before he mutters he's "going out for a smoke" and shuffles to the door.

Sue stands as well and begins to clear the table. She glances up at Jake and sighs. "I know you don't agree or even understand what the issues at hand here are, Jake..."

"You're damn right, I don't."

Billy whacks his hand down on the arm of his chair, the smack of his flesh on the padding resulting in nothing more than a dull thud. "Damn it, Jake, don't you get it? If this is a..._Cullen_...a meeting between us would be in order to ensure the rules and agreements of the treaty were respected by all parties. We can't just have one of _their kind_ running around free. Your great-great grandfather would be turning over in his grave if he knew you were turning your back on everything he worked so hard for, ensuring _our_ people would be safe from those bloodsucking monsters."

Jake drags a hand through his hair, mentally counting to ten and cursing under his breath. "Well, it's not," he finally replies, voice low as he leans forward getting eye level with Billy. "And I'm telling you right now, Dad, shelve this shit and move on before you start harassing some innocent man and bringing a lawsuit down on the res. Hear me?" He doesn't wait for a reply. "I don't need you creating trouble. Get your head on straight. There is no such thing as vampires!"

Billy leans back hard in his chair like Jake slapped him, face turning red and blotchy. "Boy, you don't know what you're talking about. I'm telling _you_ right now, everything I know, everything I am, tells me we got trouble. You need to man up and take your responsibilities to your people seriously."

"And how the hell am I supposed to do that, old man?" Jake asks, his tone condescending as he glares down at Billy who glares right back.

"Accept what you are and set up a meeting, make sure this cold one knows he has to abide by the treaty rules or leave."

"Jesus Christ," Jake mutters. "You've lost your damn mind."

"Jake." Sue moves closer, soft eyes beseeching. "I know it's hard. Your mother took you away when you were so young, but you know the legends. You carry a very special gene. You can't keep running away from this. You know you're different. You know you feel things others don't..."

"Bullshit," Jake tells her. "I'm not a damn wolf. I'm a person. You people need to let me live my life and stop trying to drag me into some twisted modern version of some ancient, made up story."

"It's not made up," Billy roars, face getting redder with his rage. "Your blood is pure. You're the last of your line. It's not just about transformation, of taking on the shape of a wolf. It's in you. It's what you are. What you'll always be no matter how much you try to deny it!"

"This affects more than you, Jake," Sue says, her tone quiet in contrast to Billy's outburst. "You have to think of the future."

Billy suddenly spins his chair to face Leah, breath sawing in and out. "Tell him," he says, jabbing a finger at her. "Talk to him, right now."

Leah turns pale and gets quickly to her feet. "I told you, no."

"Billy, now's not the time." Sue moves behind Billy and grips his shoulders hard, but he ignores her.

"You gotta get through to him, Leah. Make him understand," he yells, spit flying from his mouth.

Jake moves fast, getting closer to Billy. "Enough," he says hard. "You don't raise your voice to her like that. You hear me? I'm done with this."

Reaching over, Jake grabs Leah's hand, making her move with him, fed up and needing air. Leah follows, only partially reluctant, telling Sue she'll call later as Jake pulls her out the door and past Old Quil who's puffing away on a cigarette on the porch.

Jake drags his cell out of his pocket noting the time. Christ. Already 10:30. His gut reminds him he hasn't had anything to eat yet while his brain reminds him of everything else he hasn't gotten done. He can't believe he got dragged into yet another argument about Quileute superstitious nonsense.

He stops at his car and finally turns to address Leah, who's looking at him sternly.

"You should go easier on Billy, Jake." Her admonishment pisses Jake off as it always does when she tries to intervene.

"Leah, Billy tries to suck me in all the time. Now he's got the tribal council doing it. I'm tired of it so don't you start, too."

She looks away, but not before Jake catches the glassy look of her eyes and the slight flinching of her shoulders.

He breathes out and leans his back against the car. "Look, sorry. I don't mean to be an ass..."

"You're doing a good job for someone with no intention," she snaps, still avoiding looking at him.

Jake gives her that. She's entitled to the attitude. He's been a dick lately, and blowing her off the way he has is a shit thing to do. She deserves better. Hell, she deserves better than him, period.

"I know," he replies. "Hey, look at me." She does, and he continues. "What was that about in there?"

Leah shrugs and looks back at the house, frowning. "Nothing," she answers, brow furrowing in annoyance or worry, he can't tell which. "Just...Billy and Mom think I need to work harder to convince you...of...things."

Jake doesn't know what to say to that. They've always carefully skirted around talking about anything Quileute. He thought she was okay with the fact their beliefs didn't mesh, but right now he can tell she's holding something back. He's just not sure what it is.

Tension flaring in his back with a dull ache, he bites the bullet and asks, unable to keep the disdain out of his tone. "You really do buy into all this, don't you?"

Leah's head snaps back around, and she scowls. "I believe there's more to this world than you do, if that's what you're asking."

Jake resists the urge to bang his head against something. "You sound like your brother."

"Yeah, well, Seth is smart." There's acid in her tone, but she quickly sighs and drops it. "Look, let's not do this here."

Jake exhales roughly, his skin prickling like it doesn't belong on his body. Restless and pissed, he still tries to control his temper. "I'm sorry I've been out of touch. I'm caught up in this shit with Bella and..."

"What else is new, Jake?"

His jaw clenches, and he drops her hand, stuffing his in his pockets. Again, she has the right to be upset. Still...

He narrows his gaze at her. "You and me, Leah, have things changed?"

"What?" she snaps, all attitude and claws. There's something new and vulnerable thrown in the mix, though, and Jake could kick himself for not noticing it sooner.

"Changed, babe. Have things changed between us?"

"I don't know what you mean." But her eyes shift away, and he can tell she knows exactly what he's asking.

"You said when we started things between us, it was casual. Just us having fun, spending time together in bed when it suited us. Nothing serious. _Has_ that _changed_?"

She doesn't answer, the ground at her feet suddenly claiming all her attention. Finally she replies, quietly unsure, "I...no. I don't know. Just... Stuff happens. Things always change, I guess. It's life."

Jake stares at the top of her head, liking the way the sunlight hits her jet black hair, highlighting the shine. Fuck, she's pretty, especially like this, showing a hint of vulnerability he's so unused to. His temper eases.

"You said we need to talk. Want to at least give me a hint?"

She shakes her head and finally looks back up. "Not here," she repeats.

She seems a little pale and a lot tired. Something pulls at Jake's chest. An urge to draw her close, wrap his arms around her, and hold her for a little while. Ease some of that weariness of hers, and maybe some of his, too.

She crosses her arms over her chest, and her face tightens, stopping him from putting action to his thoughts. Leah's never been one for tenderness, at least not from him. Jake settles for reaching out and brushing her hair back. He can understand why she wouldn't want to talk here, with Old Quil glaring from the porch and her mother just inside with his dad.

"All right, but give me this at least. Are you all right?"

She smiles a little, some of the defensive sliding out of her posture. "Define all right."

Jake watches her closely, but she gives him nothing, just a quirk of her eyebrow and her infamous attitude. He answers soft. "All right, as in whatever's up with you can wait a little while longer till we have some privacy and time alone."

She licks her lips. She's gorgeous, and he has dozens of memories of them together doing things way better than this, so he notices and likes it.

He curls his hand around the side of her neck and squeezes gently. His to-do list weighs on his mind. He pushes it aside and gives a light pull, dragging Leah closer, asking again, "Yes or no?"

She stares back then sighs. He practically feels her closing down. "It can wait, Jake. Whatever."

_Fuck._

"You hungry?"

She blinks at him, obviously thrown by the change in his gears. "What?"

"I haven't eaten yet today. Have you?"

"No."

"Are you hungry?" he asks again.

She opens her mouth to answer but her stomach beats her to the punch, growling softly. Jake barks a laugh, and she smiles, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

"Guess that's a yes." He doesn't know why he's changing his plans, or at least putting them off, he just knows he can't walk away from her when she's dealing with something that's upsetting her. He doesn't even want to try. "Let's go."

She looks wary. "Where?"

"We'll go to the diner..."

"I'm not talking about private stuff between you and me in the diner, Jake," she interrupts, back to irritable.

Jake waits out her snit and gives her a minute more to see he's not in the mood to fight. "You going into work today at the shop?"

She nods, warier after his silence. "Fine, then. We'll go to the diner," he repeats. "Get some breakfast, then I'll drop you off at the shop. You can tackle some of those invoices on my desk for me and do your other shit. I'll go take care of what I have to take care of then come back and pick you up around five and bring you home. We'll get take out on the way and eat dinner at your place..."

"I'm not eating out twice in one day, Jake. I'll cook dinner."

Jake gets quiet again, waiting. She huffs and mutters, "Fine, take out, whatever."

Reaching out with the hand not around the back of her neck, he hooks a finger in her jeans belt loop, yanking her into him till she's tucked between his slightly splayed legs. Her crossed arms uncross, hands planting flat on his chest. She gasps a little at the sudden change and closeness.

"You look like you're fucking wiped, Leah. Take-out means you don't have to cook, and, baby, looking as wiped as you are, you're not cooking. Are we clear?" He'd made that mistake too many times with Bella, letting her take care of him when he should've been doing a better job taking care of her. If Leah needs rest, he's going to make damn sure she gets it.

Surprisingly, Leah nods then drops her head against his chest with an exhale that confirms she's exhausted. Jake curls his arms around her, pulling her closer, something deep in his gut easing at the way she feels…right, all tucked up close to him like this.

His mind spins, wondering what the fuck is going on between them and what she needs to talk about, unable to stop himself from thinking about the way Sam touched her inside the house. Last he heard, Sam, and Leah's former best friend and cousin Emily, were as inseparable as ever, but maybe things have changed.

Jake's arms tighten around Leah, and his blood boils.

Something deep inside is screaming at him that she's his and his alone. He just might rip Sam's head right off his shoulders if he's even sniffing anywhere around Leah, and isn't that a kick in Jake's aching gut and a complication bound to make his life a whole lot more difficult?

. . . . . .


	21. Ispita

**A/N** Sorry for the long wait. Thanks for being patient and supportive.

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

**. . . . . .**

_Driven by restrained desire..._

Chapter 21

**Ispita**

. . . . . .

Bella stares down at the dirt beneath her hands. The late afternoon sun stings her bare shoulders and bakes the ground dry. You'd never know it rained only a day ago.

She digs deeper, burying her hands wrist deep, wiggling each finger until she finally hits cooler, damper soil. She feels it wedge beneath her nails and knows she'll have little black crescent moons to show for her effort.

She wishes for a breeze, even a warm one, but the air is still, almost stagnant. The chorus chirping of crickets signals the start of an evening that promises to remain hot and stifling.

Dragging her hands from the dirt, Bella sits back on her heels and stares at a wrinkled cucumber on its half-dead vine.

Her thoughts flit to the hours just past. To the bank and the way she felt as she stood at the desk clutching a check for a crazy amount a money from a dead man's father, trying to act like it was just an ordinary day. Pointless, since she might as well have been invisible. The teller didn't even blink at the number when she deposited the cheque from Mr. Newton. She was too busy ogling Edward, batting her eyelashes and giggling, tugging her already tight suit jacket down over ample boobs. She screwed up the simple transaction at least three times.

Edward didn't seem to notice the woman's blatant attempts to flash her assets. He kept his hand on Bella's back, fingers rubbing a slow, rhythmic pattern on her lower spine, like he sensed she needed the comfort of his touch, contradictory as the affection was.

After the bank, and a futile argument Bella started in favour of Edward removing his financial contribution to her now bulging account, he insisted on—of all things—grocery shopping.

The reactions in the store were the same. Despite being relatively quiet, it seemed as if every aisle they encountered women who couldn't keep themselves from staring. Some of them were obvious, smiling and cocking hips, paying zero attention to the fact Edward wasn't alone. Others waited till they walked by, but Bella could feel their attentive gazes following them. A woman with a sticky toddler in the front of her cart almost pushed her way straight into a pyramid-shaped display of canned tomatoes.

There were other, stranger, reactions, too. Some people avoided them completely, leaving occupied aisles suddenly empty. At one point, a teenage boy stocking shelves abandoned his job in favour of keeping his eyes on Edward. His prominent Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, his posture tense while he picked at a slightly infected looking lip ring, holding his sticker gun like a weapon—as if a gummy little price tag could protect him.

Remembering this, Bella nearly laughs at the absurdity. Tugging the cucumber free of its vine, she gets up, moving to dump the bucket of overripe vegetables and wilted plants in the composter at the back of the yard. When she turns around, she's not surprised to see Edward there, crouched down, knees in a deep bend. He scoops a handful of soil then lets it run out between his splayed fingers. A waterfall of gray-black earth spills to the ground, showering the tops of his shoes.

The sun is beginning its descent in the sky, and the weakening light hits the coppery swath of highlights in his hair. It's easy to see why all those people felt the need to stare. She's wants to stare herself.

"You enjoy gardening," he says. It's an observation, not a question, yet Bella replies as if asked.

"Yes, sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

"I hate this part of it," she tells him, surprising herself with her candid answer. "The end of it. Getting everything ready for next year."

"You like the growing, the nurturing, seeing the fruits of your labor."

She nods, though again, he doesn't really ask.

Edward hums a noncommittal sound at her confirmation, giving no insight on what he thinks about it. "It's hard work getting the ground prepared for winter."

"It is, but it's not the work I mind." She feels compelled to explain and doesn't know why. "It's more the commitment I hate." She shrugs, not knowing how to put into words the feeling she gets every time she does something that roots her to this place. Knowing she'll be here next year, planting the same vegetables in the same ground makes her feel defeated. As though she's caught in a time and place that's never felt right, repeating cycles.

When he doesn't press for a deeper explanation, she feels relaxed enough to move closer. Kneeling beside him, she reaches for the now barren cucumber vine, tugging until its roots give way.

Edward continues to watch her silently. Deciding she has the right to ask him questions, Bella sits back on her heels. The dirt is hot against her bare knees.

"You know everyone in town who saw us today will be talking."

Titling his head up as though enjoying the sun and vibrant blue sky, Edward smirks. "I suppose," he answers.

Looking down at her dirty hands, Bella frowns, picking soil out from under her nails. "Don't suppose. You were the source of some pretty intense...scrutiny." She nearly says "ogling" which sounds childish even in her head. She's not bothered by the way all those women nearly drooled. She's_ not._ Shoving that thought down, she continues. "Don't you care that you're drawing a lot of attention to yourself?"

Looking over at him, hoping to see something in his expression that might help her understand what he hoped to accomplish, Bella resists the urge to ogle him herself. He's always ridiculously beautiful, even when he's cruel, but drenched in sunlight, relaxed and at ease, not demanding or challenging, he's something spectacular.

Face still tilted upward, eyes closed, he smiles slightly. "I decided as long as I'm going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly."

"What does that even mean?"

He looks at her, expression turning somber. "It means I've lived in the shadows far too long, denying myself the comforts and pleasures of the world. Come what may, I'm embracing the here and now."

The intensity in his words has her quickly looking back down. She thinks of the work yet to be done, anything except what his words might mean for her and her future.

"The people who saw us together today, what were they thinking?" she asks after a long silence, during which he appears complacent to simply stay there beside her.

He makes a soft sound that could be a low laugh. "You'll have to be more specific, lamb."

Sifting the dirt, she removes a few curled, dead leaves and huffs, irritated. "Fine. The teller at the bank with the mile-deep cleavage. What was she thinking about while she shoved her tits up for your benefit?"

A second too late she realizes her question sounds bitchy and jealous, and she busies herself searching for more leaves. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches him copying her actions. His lips turn up in a grin, perhaps at her vulgar use of "tits." He finds a knot of old roots, the thin strands tangling between his fingers before he plucks them free and adds them to her growing pile.

He makes a derisive sound. "She was wondering who I was, and where I came from. Banal, boring, obvious things, before she abandoned all logical thinking and began having a rather inventive fantasy of me... coupling with her on a desk in a back office."

He glances over, and Bella wonders if he's waiting on a reaction. She strives not to give one despite the sick ache that forms in her stomach at the images suddenly in her head. A part of her wants to go back to the bank and rip the teller's blonde hair out by its dark roots. Another part hates that she feels that way—like Edward is hers, and she has some right to jealousy.

Despite keeping her expression from mirroring her thoughts, Edward seems to note her mood. She expects him to look amused. Instead, when she finally finds the nerve to let her eyes meet his, he looks away and frowns.

"It's a ridiculously common reaction, Isabella. My kind appeals to yours in the basest ways. It's all part of the lure." He pulls another web of roots free, this one deeper and firmly entrenched. She feels an echo of that hard pull deep inside, somewhere tender and fragile.

Edward rises out of his crouch, continuing almost angrily. "The feeling is superficial and short lasting. Within a few minutes, instinct kicks in, and good sense generally prevails. Her fantasy would have wilted quickly in favor of healthier pursuits, like the act of distancing herself from my presence."

Bella contemplates this, a growing, gnawing sense of pity floating at the periphery of her seesawing emotions. How would it feel to be utterly alone in the world, no true connection to the masses of people around you? Her thoughts channel to the grocery store and the reactions of those who outwardly avoided them. "The young guy stocking shelves in the store. I take it his instincts kicked in?" she asks, getting up and brushing dirt from her knees, wondering if she could possibly be the first person he's met in his life whose life-preserving impulses were nearly nonexistent.

Edward's upper lip curls slightly. "Yes."

"You did that on purpose," she guesses, watching him closely. "You stood right beside him, reading labels on _jam_. That was you, purposely...what? Freaking him out?"

For a moment she thinks he's not going to answer, then he surprises her by laughing quietly, whatever tension he was feeling seeming to melt away.

"His thoughts upon seeing you bend over to select an item from a low shelf were inappropriate. I simply let my presence be known." He shrugs, clearly amused. "I'm nothing if not possessive, lamb—perhaps you noticed?"

Leaving that alone, because it's a topic they've already discussed to death, Bella pushes the conversation back on track, unwilling to admit or discuss the contradictory way his claiming affects her.

"It's a small town. People will talk," she reminds him.

Edward stands and moves to her small storage shed to pick up the shovel leaning against the door. A blur of movement begins and ends, leaving Edward standing at the far end of her small garden patch, the soil in front of him perfectly cleared and turned. He drives the spaded head into the ground and rests a forearm on top of the handle, surveying the finished work that would have taken Bella hours to complete.

"Let them talk, Isabella. I told you. I'm through hiding." He jerks the shovel free, letting it sail upwards out of his hand before catching it easily and carrying it back to her shed. He dusts off his hands and makes his way to her, finger finding her chin and tilting her face up. "So are you, lamb."

. . . . . .

Edward is taking over everything. Bella finishes washing her dinner dishes, fighting temper and fatigue.

She turns around, drying the last handful of silverware.

"Did you seriously just order groceries delivered to your house?"

Edward stretches his long legs out, looking ridiculously strong and lethal sitting at her small kitchen table. He puts a cell phone she doesn't remember seeing before into his jeans pocket. She tries not to stare at the action that draws attention to the way the denim hugs lean yet powerful thighs, amongst other things.

Her skin prickles and tightens, and those sharp little darts of pain that she's figured out accompany any longing for him she denies, twist themselves deeper.

He doesn't say anything, interpreting the question as rhetorical since she just listened to him do the very thing she's asked.

"The order, it was the exact same stuff we just bought?" She gestures to the fridge and cupboards now nearly over-stocked thanks to his crazy brand of forced generosity.

He does answer this time. "Yes."

Bella waits for him to elaborate, crossing her arms over her chest like she's annoyed—which she is—and not trying to ease the ache in her chest, which she also is.

He notices and arches an eyebrow. She senses he's recognizing a pattern and quickly drops the posture, dumping the towel and dry silverware on the counter. She fumbles slightly and the edge of the knife she used to cut vegetables grazes her pinkie finger. Hissing at the bite of pain, she sticks the finger in her mouth and glares at Edward like it's his fault.

He's in front of her instantly, using a speed that makes her dizzy.

"Stop doing that," she snaps. He reaches for her hand, but she pulls it away, attempting to turn to the sink to run water over the tiny yet deep slice, betting she's going to need stitches. Edward catches her before she can, his hand clamping down firmly against her palm. He flips her hand over so he can inspect the wound. Blood wells and trickles down to the crease at the base.

Bella tries futilely to pull her hand back, and she's rewarded with more sharp darts in her chest. His hand is cool and strong, and it feels nice. The kitchen is hot. The willpower it's taking to keep fighting what her traitorous body wants exhausts her. She trembles slightly, exhaling in a rush.

His attention instantly snaps to her face.

"It hurts," she tells him, not lying, though really the truth is the cut hardly stings at all. It's him and fighting this ridiculous pull that hurts. The fact his eyes have turned the inhuman colour of tar from the smell of her blood, doesn't change the way she wants to move closer.

Holding her gaze, he draws her pinkie to his mouth and gently sucks the wounded flesh. The tiny sting fades away, but the miniature knives under her skin poke a little harder as she fights not to sag into him. The graze of his tongue flicking over her flesh creates an echo of sensation that spreads over her entire body. It's all she can do not to pant.

He releases her hand, sliding his hand down to her wrist. "Better?" he asks.

It's a struggle to look away from those eyes, but she manages. The cut is completely sealed. All that remains is a small pink line that seems to fade as she stares.

Bella lets her arm relax, her elbow dropping against her side. He doesn't release her wrist, and she stops trying to make him. Once more the pain in her middle fades the second she quits resisting. A different ache remains. The need to get closer, to feel his touch and revel in the way he makes her skin...hungry for contact.

"You've never explained how you do that," she reminds him, trying to deflect attention from her reactions, or at least hoping he'll think she's simply bothered by the blood.

Edward gently spins her around, placing her hand under a sudden onslaught of cool water from the tap, washing away remaining red smears. Bella wonders at the effort it must cost him to deny himself what he so clearly wants and probably needs.

"I can make your blood flow freely, prevent it from clotting, or I can seal the wound closed. I can speed the healing of any injury, provided it's on the surface of the skin."

"Useful," she mutters, thinking of all the bites and all the times she should've been too sore to walk after marathon sessions of sex where he was hardly gentle and instead she was fine and scar free.

His lips turn up a tiny bit at the corners, like he might know the connections she's made. "It's a helpful vampire asset."

"You have a lot of those."

"More than some, less than others," he answers cryptically. Before she can ask him to explain exactly how an asset like that works, Edward turns off the water and dries her hand with a clean towel. "As for the groceries, since I know you will not deign to ask me why, I duplicated your purchases earlier and stocked my kitchen identical to yours. Even though I agreed for the time being we would reside here, I know there will be times my presence will be required to oversee work at the mansion. I like to prepare for any eventuality, regardless."

He suddenly cocks his head, listening to something she can't hear. "Speaking of preparing for eventualities..." He turns toward the living room and heads for the front door.

"Someone's here?" Bella trails him, jumping a little when the doorbell rings on the tail end of her question. "Wait. Shouldn't I get that while you...I don't know, hide in the closet or something?"

Edward shoots her a cynical look over his shoulder. "I do not hide in closets, Isabella." He opens the door before she can think of another way to protest. Tyler Crowley stands there, holding several boxes, and Bella stops in her tracks.

She's known Tyler since high school, but she realizes the second he nods at Edward, Tyler didn't come here looking for her.

"Mr. Masen, I brought the packages you asked for." He looks over his shoulder as a truck pulls up behind his, loaded with several large crates. "And I've got the doors, lock systems, and AC unit you wanted installed. We can get started now if you want? I'm sure we can get it all up and running before it gets too dark."

Tyler tugs the slightly grubby baseball hat he's wearing a little farther down on his head, the action resembling a nervous tic as he shuffles his feet. He sees Bella and smiles.

"Oh, hi, Bella. How are you?" His greeting is polite, a little hesitant, like the smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The Tyler Bella is used to would've grabbed her in a bear hug and swung her around by now.

"Tyler...uh, hi." She feels her voice crack a little as Edward does the now familiar action of cocking his head, signalling he's intently contemplating or listening.

Taking the boxes from Tyler's arms and placing them on the reclining chair to the right of the door, Edward looks from her to him.

"I take it you two know each other?"he asks, his tone falsely calm and quiet.

"We went to school together," Bella answers quickly, suddenly even more nervous than she was a minute ago. Edward interacting with someone she knows is terrifying. She has no idea how to navigate this. The fact it's only an old friend from high school and not Charlie—or worse, Jake—does little to alleviate her fear.

Edward studies Tyler closely as if seeing him for the first time, something Bella realizes wouldn't be true. The pieces slide together quickly in her head. Tyler works as a contractor for the only construction company in town large enough to handle the kind of renovation work being done on Edward's house. It's a testament to how unsettled Edward makes her feel that she's missed out on connecting certain dots. Apparently, even before today, Edward hasn't exactly been hiding in the shadows.

For what seems a long, awkward moment, no one speaks. The tension in Edward fades away, and he steps out on the porch just as two men Bella doesn't recognize get out of the second truck and move around to lower the tailgate.

"Edward, what is all this?" Bella asks as Tyler quickly runs down the steps to help, looking relieved to have an excuse to leave the porch.

"A new door and locks. Did you forget I told you I'd be replacing yours?"

She did, but she doesn't say so. Considering he broke them...

"And a central air conditioning unit."

For a minute all thought escapes her as she struggles to digest why on earth he'd bring something like that here. "You're putting central air in my house?"

Edward runs his hand across the back of her neck where perspiration dots her skin and fine tendrils of hair cling. "The heat is making you uncomfortable," he points out, sounding as though he's stating logic when really it's absurd.

"This is Forks!" Bella tells him, trying not to gape. "This weather is a fluke. All this sun. I mean, it gets warm in the summer, but not usually this hot...it's not...it won't last. It's nearly September."

She can tell he's listening, but his expression tells her nothing she's saying registers as a valid argument.

"Edward." She tries again, swallowing against a strange type of rising hysteria that tightens her throat. "This is an old house. Jake and I used to throw a window unit in during a heat wave. It's probably still in the basement..."

She can see he isn't getting any better about hearing her mention Jake in the way his jaw tightens, but she doesn't care.

"I don't even mind the heat," she tells him, sounding a little desperate. "This is...ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Edward scowls and turns his back to the activity happening in the driveway, fully facing her. "Isabella, there is nothing ridiculous about providing you with things you need to be safe and comfortable."

"Does it matter at all to you if I want those things or not?" she cries, frustrated, not caring if her voice is loud and might carry to Tyler or anyone else listening.

Edward steps closer, and she can't bring herself to step back, not even when he cups the side of her face and skims her cheek with his thumb. The caress ignites a riot of need and want, and with it more sharp bites of pain when she forces her body to stay in place, mentally rejecting the comfort.

"It might matter," he answers, his voice quiet and controlled in contrast to hers, "if there were no necessity and it was only indulgence. More importantly, if I didn't recognize the lengths you will go in resisting the things you need so you can defy me and what you feel."

Bella blinks, fighting with all her might, hating that he's seeing through her, fearing that he might know more than she wants him to. His other hand rises to push a strand of hair away from her temple, cool fingers staying to trail around the place that betrays her racing pulse.

He lowers his head and skims her lips with his, the softest, sweetest kiss, his cool breath so delicious it makes her stomach swirl and dip. So much need...

"Don't mistake my patience for unawareness or lack of understanding, lamb," he murmurs against her lips as she draws in his air like it's life itself. "I told you, I take care of what is mine. I won't allow you to be uncomfortable, even if I have to protect you from your own stubborn pride."

Abruptly, Edward releases her and steps back. He regards her like he's waiting for her to respond. When she gives him nothing, too intent on fighting the screaming hollow ache the loss of contact with him brings, he shakes his head.

"You're so intent on making this a war of wills, Isabella. You won't even consider how sweet surrender can be."

He leaves her there on the porch, hurting, angry, freaked out, and joins Tyler and the two men. He jumps into the truck bed with easy grace and hefts one of the large boxes out by himself, either oblivious or not caring that the three men all stare with wide eyes.

Bella turns on her heel and goes back inside, slamming the door hard for good measure. Even with it closed, she swears she can still hear the stupid, melodic sound of Edward laughing at her.

. . . . . .

Sitting on the crumbling concrete of her small back steps, Bella listens to the cicada beetles' cyclical buzzing in the trees at the back of her lot.

The heat feels more oppressive now. With the last of the light fading from the day everything feels heavy and still. Shadows grow at the edges of her yard, creeping in slowly.

She bats at a mosquito heading for her ankle.

If only all bloodsuckers could be swatted away so easily.

She's still fuming over Edward's relentless takeover. New doors with a steel core and locks that look like they belong on a vault in a bank have been installed both front and back, and for the life of her, Bella can't figure out why.

The only one breaking in has been him. She might think he's trying to keep her prisoner if it wasn't for the fact he gave her keys. Not before pocketing a set for himself first, though.

She picks up the glass of wine at her side and takes a deep swallow, draining almost a quarter of the contents. She rarely drinks. The bottle she found at the back of the fridge is one Jess brought over a few weeks ago. It's stale and a little vinegary but still sweet. Good enough to hopefully dull some of the sharper edges of the ache that seems like it's getting worse instead of better.

Edward's inside, sitting at her kitchen table, again, setting up not one but three laptops. Two are his; the third, he informed her, is for her personal use.

She pointed out she owned a perfectly good computer, but like the money, doors, locks, AC, and everything else, her logic fell on deaf ears. Apparently her four year old Hewlett Packard laptop was outdated, inefficient and subpar.

Taking another mouthful of wine, Bella embraces the slight glow she feels from the alcohol, wondering if there's enough left in the bottle to get her good and drunk.

She hears a muffled thump from around the side of the house where Tyler is still finishing up with the AC. A minute later, he comes around the corner, head down, carrying a toolbox.

"All finished?" she asks hopefully. As much as she likes Tyler, she wants him gone. Away from Edward and this weird situation she finds herself in. Too late, she realizes she probably shouldn't be out here alone, where Tyler might ask questions she can't answer.

Startled, obviously not expecting her to be there, Tyler looks up. "Oh, hey, Bella." He puts the toolbox down and rubs a grubby grease-stained towel up and down his right arm, his gaze darting around the yard. Anywhere except at her. "Didn't see you there. Damn, it's hot, right? I was hoping it'd get cooler when the sun went down." He uses the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe sweat off his face flashing toned abs she might have once admired, before she learned the true definition of chiseled.

"No such luck, I guess," he rambles on. "That AC system will be great for you tonight, that's for sure. I just need to turn it on and show you how to run the thermostat. It's kind of complicated. I had to read the instructions for it twice myself." He forces a laugh. "This system is fresh off the market. High tech. Probably way too big for a house this size...but...Mr. Masen insisted on only the best."

"Of course he did," Bella replies when Tyler falls quiet. The acerbic bite of her tone isn't missed, and Tyler finally looks at her. His attention flicks to the house momentarily before he moves to sit beside her on the narrow stoop.

Bella's mind races as she shifts over, like she's trying to give him more room when what she really wants is to bolt back inside the house. She expects the door behind her to open and Edward to come out. Maybe he can't hear them? But, no, the windows are open, and she suspects he'd hear just fine anyway. Is he too involved in his computers? Is this some kind of test?

Another gulp of wine nearly finishes off the glass, and the burn of it makes her cough.

"I didn't know you were friends with Mr. Masen," Tyler says once he's settled, using the towel to try and wipe deeply embedded black lines out of his knuckles. He puts emphasis on friends, silently insinuating.

"No, I guess you wouldn't." Bella settles on pointing out the obvious, not knowing what else to say.

Tyler nods, dropping the towel at his side in favour of picking broken blades of grass off the knees of his jeans. He turns his head to look at her, but she keeps her gaze toward the back of the yard, watching the shadows creep in.

Lowering his voice, Tyler asks the question she somehow knew was inevitable. The one she's dreaded. "Everything okay, Bella?"

"Yeah," she says quickly, too quickly maybe. "Everything's good." She has to guard against the urge to say more. There's too much at stake. One slip and she could put him in danger. She can't risk him becoming concerned about her or the nature of her relationship with Edward.

Tyler keeps staring at her profile. A lump comes up in her throat, remembering what a good friend he used to be, once upon a time when her life made some kind of sense. Back when it seemed like it might be possible for her to be...normal. Have friends and a boyfriend and a future of some kind. Before it all fell apart, and she couldn't keep denying the emptiness that ate away at her wasn't going to sabotage everything good that came her way.

Her fingers tremble on the stem of her glass as she finishes the last of the wine, remembering how certain she was there was no cure for whatever was wrong with her. How she felt it was only a matter of time before she slipped down into some mental abyss or illness like Renee. She used to pray that wouldn't happen, that she'd find something that would numb her misery.

Now she wonders at the irony and cosmic humour that sent her a vampire as a cure. A self-professed, cold-blooded murderer with little conscience and no capability to love who thinks he owns her, body and soul.

"You seemed upset earlier, about the AC and stuff," Tyler says, lowering the volume of his voice even more, bumping her with his shoulder gently when she doesn't immediately answer. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

Bella stares at her empty glass, her mind scrambling for what to say. "Edward is...overly generous. I just didn't want him spending so much money on me." It's the truth, in a way.

Tyler's posture seems to relax. He rests his arms on his legs, calloused strong looking hands dangling between his knees. Surprisingly he huffs out a short laugh, like she's said something he relates to.

"Yeah, he is that for sure. He's paying me double what I normally make for a job ten times the size of anything I've done before." Tyler cracks his knuckles and shifts a bit on the step.

"I don't know if you heard, but...Lauren's really sick."

Bella turns her head to look at him, not bothering to hide her surprise or concern. In the growing dark it's hard to make out his expression, and he's looking away now, giving her only his profile to study. "I didn't know, Tyler. I'm sorry." More proof, if she needed it, how out of touch she's been with everything since her and Jake split. Bella was never close to Lauren, though they were in several classes together her junior and senior year. Lauren could be a bitch at times, and Bella never understood what Tyler saw in her. But there must have been some redeeming quality, because he married her straight out of high school.

"It's okay. We haven't been spreading around a lot of information about it. Lauren...doesn't want a ton of people knowing right now, and we just got the diagnosis a month ago. Just close friends and family are aware. She has thyroid cancer."

"I'm sorry," Bella repeats, hating the way the useless platitude sounds.

"Anyway," Tyler continues, waving off her sympathy and blinking rapidly over a sudden sheen to his eyes, "medical bills have been a bitch, but I wasn't sure, even needing the money, if I could take on a job that requires the kind of hours Mr. Masen expects. I didn't want to leave Lauren on her own so much. The treatments are making her sick as a dog." He rubs a hand over his face and heaves out a breath. "Our health coverage was shit, and, well, point is, Mr. Masen found out, and he told me not to worry, said he'd take care of things so I could take the job. Next thing I know, my boss is telling me Mr. Masen pulled strings and suddenly we've got a new health care package. It has all these amazing benefits, including full coverage for a full time nurse to be with Lauren, better doctors and new drugs our old plan wouldn't cover, that kind of thing."

Tyler makes a sound that comes out like a strangled sob coupled with a humorless laugh. "I've talked to a lot of people. This HMO, it's through a company called Pacific Northwest Trust. No one's even heard of it. I guess it's elite or something... Well, it's crazy anyway, the kind of stuff they cover for us." He scrubs at his jaw, fingers rasping over the scruff on his chin, and drags in a deep breath before getting up suddenly. Bella has to tilt her head up to see him. He's looking down at her with a strange look on his face.

"The guys working for me all think Masen is a scary dude. I think they're right. I don't think he's someone you'd want to get on the wrong side of. But I'm not the only one who's suddenly hit a windfall. Everyone's making double wages. And more than a few of the guys down on their luck managed to get loans thanks to Masen and some unheard of finance company. Wanna take a guess at the name?"

"Pacific Northwest Trust," Bella offers over a tight sensation in her chest.

Tyler nods. "Mortgages refinanced, car loans with crazy low interest rates, that kind of thing." He shrugs. "I could go on, but you get the point."

Not sure she does get the point, head swimming with the wine and all this information, Bella gets to her feet. Tyler reaches out and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "I guess I'm telling you all this because I get the feeling you and Masen might be more than just...friends."

Bella opens her mouth, not sure what she means to say, but Tyler holds up his other hand and squeezes hers again. "Not my business, I know. I just have to say...I understand a lot of people in this town think you and Jake should iron out your differences and get back together." He shakes his head. "I'm not one of those people."

She stares at him, surprised. He smiles.

"I like Jake, but I was friends with you first, and I know you're not into drama and games so the only reason you'd break up with him is if your heart wasn't in it. Just cause you guys were friends and it was easy, doesn't mean it was right. So, if there _is_ more going on with you and Masen, you might get some flak, so I wanted you to know. Despite what some might say, you could do way worse than someone like Masen."

Bella stares at Tyler, swamped in confusion and slightly dizzy. "Did he pay you to say that?" she blurts, blushing slightly when Tyler laughs and shakes his head.

"No, and I'd appreciate it if you don't tell him about this little talk. Like I said, he's not the kind of man I'd ever want to piss off." He covers up a nervous glance at the house with a quick wink before dropping her hand. "Come on. I'll show you how to run the thermostat system. Thing has a crazy amount of settings. It might take a while."

He gestures to the door, letting her ahead of him, and Bella has no choice except go in and face _Mr. Masen_, who she suspects, contrary to what Tyler wants, has heard every word.

. . . . . .


	22. Tentation

A/N It's been a while, sorry. I attempted to stay in touch via my FF profile page, but for those of you who didn't check in, this chapter is proof Prey for the Wicked isn't abandoned. ;-)

Huge thanks to my beta Saritadreaming for both her support and her grammar/punctuation skills.

A shout out to crmcneil for catching a major flub on my part. I didn't manage to update faster to show my gratitude, but it's still there all the same.

In the past few months, I've re-edited and cleaned up all prior chapters. Changes to the actual storyline are very minimal so re-reading isn't necessary. That being said, this plot is detailed and intricate. If you feel you've forgotten what this story is about, it might be helpful to at least go back and skim to refresh your memory. I've attempted to leave some reminders for you at the beginning of this chapter, but that may not be enough for those of you looking at this update and drawing a blank.

Thank you to all of you who have sent me messages of support, well wishes for my health, and kind inquiries. I've missed you, dear readers. I hope you'll welcome me back and rejoin Preyward and his Isabella on their journey.

Aleea

_**Twilight characters belong to Stephanie Meyer. Lyrics below title belong to The Tea Party song, Temptation. The rest is mine. Please don't steal. Preyward won't like it._

. . . . . .

* * *

**From chapter 20** - Jake is confronted by Billy and other members of the tribal council, demanding he accept what he is and take on the role of protector of his people. Still refusing to believe any of it, Jake remains fixated on finding Mike Newton and unconcerned with who is living in the Cullen house despite the tribal council's insistence "Edward Masen" could actually be a Cullen. During this time, Jake discovers his feelings for Leah are taking a new, possessive turn. With Leah insisting she and Jake need to talk, he finds himself torn between obligations and increasingly restless as his werewolf blood fights to make itself known.

**From chapter 21** – Edward and Bella continue the power struggle to define their relationship. Edward grows ever more possessive, and Bella's continued resistance begins to manifest in increasing physical discomfort. Taking over her home, Edward has central air conditioning, new doors, and locks installed. During this, Bella learns Tyler Crowley is Edward's contractor, and that he and other employees working on the Cullen mansion are benefiting from Edward's financial generosity. She begins to wonder if there is a softer side to the vampire.

**Important things to remember for this chapter** – In 1903, Edward lost the battle against temptation and killed a young teenage girl named Mary Adele. Blaming Carlisle and the lifestyle they lived as the catalyst and consumed with guilt, he turns away from his family. His first victim was Mary Adele's brother, whom Edward learned from reading her mind had been molesting her, thus beginning the alternate lifestyle of hunting and killing evil men.

**Also** – When Edward returns to the Twilight Tavern the morning after his first night spent with Bella, he finds Mike leaving the club thinking about an underage girl he violated in a stairwell after plying her with drugs and alcohol. He kills Mike, and later, when admitting his crime to Bella, he tells her the girl was only a substitute for who Mike really wanted. Bella.

* * *

**Prey for the Wicked**

_Temptation...  
It never lets me down..._

Chapter 22

Tentation

. . . . . .

Yawning wide, jaw joints popping, Jake finishes filling out the last requisition form for new parts and shuts his computer down. It's going on 8:00 p.m., and the huge amount of work he's accomplished isn't as satisfying as it should be. Ten seconds in the door of the shop this morning, all hell broke loose, derailing his plans for the day. Paul, his lead mechanic, called in sick. Jared was late, again...

Spinning his chair to the side, Jake rakes his fingers over his scalp, the short ends of his hair bristling under his touch. So much for getting to Bella's and looking for that address book or getting a hold of Charlie and finding out if he's learned anything new in his search for Mike Newton. He hasn't heard from Seth, either.

Billy, on the other hand, has called five times. Letting every call go to voice mail hasn't deterred him, telling Jake it's only a matter of time before he's going to have it out with his father—hopefully for the last time.

With a few minutes to spare before he needs to get Leah back home and face whatever mess is coming his way there, he reaches across his desk, careful not to upset the neat towers of stacked paperwork. He snags his cell and quickly flips through his contacts for Quil's latest number—the guy switches out phones faster than anyone else Jake knows. He hits connect and listens to the droning ring, hoping Quil will answer.

Just as he's resigned to getting voice mail again, Quil picks up.

"Jake, what's up?"

Jake instantly notes he sounds off. "Been trying to get a hold of you, Quil."

"Yeah, got your messages. Been busy."

He's curt, and Jake frowns. Normally Quil is laid back and friendly.

Ignoring the attitude, Jake gets to the point. "I need some info. I'm still trying to find Newton. I spoke to Jess Stanley the other day, and she tells me Mike was peddling dope." He pauses, and when Quil doesn't answer, he pushes. "Tell me what you know."

"What?"

"I said..."

"No, I heard what you said, man. But what makes you think I know anything? I deal a little weed. That doesn't exactly make me an authority on the criminal activities of others." Quil laughs, but it has a nervous quality to it.

"Bullshit. Don't dick me around, Quil. I know you've branched out. You've got buyers all over Forks and into Port Angeles. There's no way you're not aware of what else is out there and who's pushing it. I need to know specifically about someone Jess mentioned. A guy named James."

Quil is quiet for a long minute, and the back of Jake's neck prickles. Something is off. Quil is his boy. The fact he's reluctant to talk makes Jake anxious.

"Quil, what the hell?"

There's a blast of sound from Quil exhaling hard into the phone, then he pitches his voice low like he's afraid of being overheard. "I don't know a lot of details, okay? But I do know this much—James and his crew are bad fucking news. They run some Coke, Ecstasy, the usual club drugs. But they mainly deal in high-end prescription pain meds: Oxy, Codeine, Morphine, that kinda shit. It's a lucrative business. High demand, high profit."

"And?"

"And that's it. I mean, this James, he's a ghost. _No one_ really knows him. He comes to town every once in a while to check on whoever might be working for him, bring new product, that sort of thing. No schedule, and he never stays long. He's in, he's out, he doesn't mess around, and anyone he meets will tell you the dude is bad news."

"And you had no idea Mike was working for him?"

"Man...I don't know. I guess I heard a few rumors a while back, but nothing concrete. I do know Mike was playing at being a club hotshot, booking bands at the Twilight Tavern and all that. Makes sense he could've been in with someone who could provide the kind of pharmaceuticals that crowd likes. But it's not my business, andI don't stick my nose where it doesn't belong."

The not so subtle warning isn't lost on Jake, but he ignores it, feeling his temperature rising. Quil's dodging.

"What else aren't you telling me?"

Something on the other end of the line bangs, like a door closing.

"Jake, this isn't a good time." The sound of keys jangling is followed by the familiar sound of Quil's Mustang revving to life.

"_Quil_, what aren't you telling me?" Jake repeats, pissed. "Don't make me hunt you down, because I will. This is important, and you fucking know it. I need to find Newton before he shows back up here looking to get his hands on Bella. You saw those pictures. You know there's no way someone that twisted in the head is going to just let his obsession with her go. If he was involved with this James guy, he could be the key to finding where that sick shit is holing up."

Quil mutters a curse, and it sounds to Jake like he's switching the phone to his other ear. "Look. If Newton so much as steps one foot back in Forks, I'll personally help you rip his nutsack off, or whatever else you want to do to him. But, man, listen to me. No way in hell he'd run to James. Hear me, Jake. That guy is scary as fuck. You do not want to go looking for him. You do _not_ want him to know you exist."

"For someone who claims to be out of the loop, you seem to know a lot about this guy's personality."

"I'm telling you. Leave it alone."

"I'm not leaving it alone, Quil. It's the only lead I've got," Jake warns.

"It's a dead end. All you're gonna do is stir up a hornet's nest..."

"You're holding out on me." Jake cuts Quil off, blood pressure rising. "You know more about this than you're sharing."

"Need to know, man. And trust me, you do not_ need_ to know. Feel me?"

The sound of tires hitting and chewing up gravel comes through the line, telling Jake Quil is on the move. "Jesus Christ, Quil. You're up to your neck in some kind of shit, aren't you?"

"Last time I'm telling you. Leave it the fuck alone, Jake." Quil bites the words out. "You want to look out for Bella? Get your head out of your ass and pay attention to what Billy's saying to you. There are worse things than Newton out there."

Jake lets his head fall back and stares at the ceiling, sucking back a slew of bad words as the line goes dead.

He doesn't know what's worse. That his best friend is hiding shit from him and could be involved in far worse than selling a little weed. Or that Quil is yet another name he can add to the growing list of people brainwashed into believing vampires and werewolves are real.

. . . . . . .

Bella refills her glass while Edward walks Tyler to the door. Her hands shake, wine spilling over the edge, creating a puddle of red on the table.

She watches Edward slip folded bills into Tyler's hand, which Tyler tries to refuse. Edward frowns, and Tyler swallows down any further objections with a nervous gulp before offering a weak grin and a genuine thank you. He leaves with a last glance in her direction, and then they're alone again.

Lifting her glass, Bella takes several small sips. She wants to chug, but getting drunk right now won't help. The vent near her feet emits a hissing noise, and she can feel the AC's cool air kissing her ankles, warmer air swirling around her upper body from the still-open windows. She stares at the thermostat, irrationally hating the way it looks on the wall, starkly white, shiny, and modern against the uneven, beige-painted plaster.

Reaching out, she flicks the main switch on the bottom, listening as her old furnace clicks and hums, shutting down the fan that pumps the artificially cooled air. The thermostat's digital screen flashes numbers and symbols she doesn't care to understand, Tyler's instructions on running it already forgotten.

"The cash you just gave Tyler. Is that for the work he did here?" She doesn't turn around, feigning interest in the box that beeps, like she'll understand what it wants.

"Yes."

"And the health plan? Pacific Northwest Trust? That's you, too, right?"

"Yes."

He doesn't act surprised by her bringing up the name, which means she was right to think he was listening in on her conversation with Tyler earlier.

Edward reaches over her shoulder, pressing a few symbols on the screen and silencing the thermostat. She feels him move the wisps of hair off the back of her neck that have escaped her clip, his touch skimming lightly over her nape. It feels ridiculously good.

"How?"

"It's a legitimate company, Isabella. One I established several decades ago as a way to move money around. It can be whatever I want it to be, act in whatever capacity I require."

"And you require an HMO? A loan company?"

"Among other things."

"I don't understand. How does it benefit you to basically pay for all Tyler's wife's medical expenses?"

"I needed a contractor. Tyler Crowley needed incentive to take on the job."

Bella closes her eyes, her head falling forward as Edward's touch lulls her. Dangerously so. She snaps back to attention and turns around, her skin screaming for what she's denied it.

"You could have just found another contractor," she says in challenge, searching his face, his eyes, for what she doesn't know.

"Not with his ability and work ethic. I would have had to hire someone from out-of-town, adding more time and expense to the project."

Bella supposes his explanation is logical, and yet...

"He said you're paying him double what he normally makes. And that he's never done a job this size before."

Edward takes a step closer, and Bella refuses to step back, despite an instinct to do so. He flattens one of his hands on the wall behind her head, wrapping the other around her throat, fingers over her pulse. It would be a threatening pose if his touch wasn't so careful, like he's cradling her neck. She's also learning he likes to connect with her heart beat. As if in proof, his thumb strokes her pulse point. She finds the touch weirdly endearing.

"Are you trying to humanize me, lamb?" he asks with a slow grin, devilish eyes flashing. "Wondering about my capacity to care about the plight of others? Curious if the monster has a heart?"

Bella shakes her head slightly, though the truth is that's exactly what she's doing.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire." Edward tsks, then releases her so suddenly if it wasn't for the closeness of the wall offering her something to lean on, she might have stumbled. That itchy feeling of wanting to be closer to him constantly tilts her body in his direction, no matter her will.

"You could've just offered him more money. You didn't have to go out of your way to create a fake HMO. The pay raise would've been enough to help him with Lauren's medical bills."

"It's not a fake. Pacific Northwest Trust is a thriving enterprise with many divisions and branches, health care being only one of dozens. It employs thousands. It makes me an obscene amount of money. There's nothing altruistic about my actions, Isabella."

She briefly wonders what constitutes an 'obscene amount of money' to someone like him. "You went above and beyond."

Edward arches an eyebrow. "Careful, beauty. You're getting perilously close to breaking your self-made rule against asking why."

"How do you know it's a rule?" The tingling feeling his touch left on her skin makes her want to trace the place his fingers were with her own. She ignores the urge and glares at him.

He moves across the room to the shelf where she keeps all her pictures. He picks up the one of her and her mother, the only professional picture ever taken of them when Bella was in the ninth grade, just a few weeks before she came to live with Charlie permanently. Bella fights a desire to take it away from him.

"I know it's a rule because I'm observant. I've watched you fight not to ask the obvious questions since the moment we met. I cannot read your mind. It doesn't mean I cannot read _you_." He stares at the picture. "You resemble your mother."

The abrupt topic change disconcerts her. She dislikes talking about Renee on a good day. Bella moves to where he stands and tugs the picture away, replacing it on the shelf carefully. She wonders why he's purposely avoiding telling her about Tyler.

"We have similar hair and eye color. Otherwise, I'm nothing like her." She refrains from mentioning her recent worries about sharing a genetic predisposition toward mental illness. She left that worry behind once she accepted the vampire in front of her is real and not a delusion.

Edward picks up the picture of her and Charlie next, taken last summer at a dinner she put on in celebration of his birthday. "More like your father, perhaps? Certainly you have his stubborn mind frame, his self-assured individuality."

"You don't know my parents." She doesn't tell him he's right. She is more like Charlie, and that's almost as bad.

Bella moves back to her wine and the search for an artificial calm in the storm that is Edward. The taste isn't improving with the amount she's drinking, but the warmth that blooms in her throat and stomach when she drinks is increasingly comforting. Her hands are steadier at least.

"I'm still confused about Tyler," she reminds him, wanting to move the conversation away from her parents. She hears Edward put the picture back. With her back turned to him, she isn't sure if he picks up another.

"Don't be," he replies, his tone dry. "It suits me to keep him close. He's competent, biddable; his mind is not a cesspool. It's currently more conducive to line his pockets than it is to use...other means of persuasion at my disposal. His financial need is convenient and insures his loyalty and swift compliance with my whims, nothing more."

Making her way to the sofa, Bella curls up in the corner facing him. He stays standing in front of the shelves, but his hands are in his pockets. Something about his posture sticks out as contradictory to what he's saying.

"You pay him hourly?"

"Yes."

"Yet you gave him extra cash just now. On top of what you'll pay him for the time he puts in?"

She catches his jaw clench. A tiny reflex out of place with his otherwise effortless stillness.

"What do you want to hear, Isabella? Something that gives you a glimpse I have some small capacity for empathy?"

Bella swirls the wine, watching it slosh thickly against the sides of the glass, her mouth suddenly dry. She knows better, doesn't she? Empathy is a human emotion. She shouldn't expect or hope to see it in someone like him. "I don't know what I want to hear."

"Ah. A fully honest answer at last, lamb."

Scowling, she takes a deeper sip of her wine. This time the heat blooms in her head, and the edges of the room soften slightly. She presses the side of her warm cheek against the back of the sofa, feeling the slight nub of the old fabric.

"You make it sound like I'm deceitful."

"Deceitful? No, I wouldn't call you that. Secretive would be a more apt description."

She barely refrains from snorting wine out her nose. "That's rich coming from you, Edward Masen, or Edward Cullen, or whoever you are."

He hums a sound that's not quite a laugh, lips turning up slightly at the edges. He runs fingers down the glass that covers a picture taken the day she graduated Forks High. She hates the picture and what it represents, the end of one era and the beginning of nothing.

He's quiet for a long time, just staring at the photograph, studying all the faces. Bella remembers Mike Newton is in that shot, standing in the back row. She closes her eyes, sleepy from the wine and the heat.

When he finally speaks, it's quiet and doesn't startle her, soothing almost.

"I was born Edward Masen."

She opens her eyes to find him still staring at the picture.

"Later, after my change, I took on my maker's name, Cullen. I was a devoted son, for a time."

He adjusts the photograph, moving it back and to the right so it lines up with the others. "When I lived with the coven, we all took on the name. It was easier to blend into society if we were seen as a family. We often pretended to be students of some kind, learning to pass ourselves off as younger. We already looked the part, and it allowed us to stay in one place longer than we would have otherwise dared. Still, it was a torturous way to spend time."

"I can imagine." Her time in school wasn't the worst experience ever, but it was nothing she'd want to repeat.

He smiles slightly, turning to look at her. "I have several useless college degrees from a bygone day and era. All told, I doubt I was ever any happier to graduate than you appear here."

Bella isn't sure what to say in response. What he's revealed only confuses her more. She sips her wine, and Edward returns his attention to her pictures. The silence stretches out between them, full of unasked questions.

. . . . .

Muscles stiff from sitting and the residual tension from his conversation with Quil, Jake gets up and goes to the window built into his office wall as a lookout to the main area of his garage. Everyone's left for the day with the exception of Leah. He watches her tape a work order to the windshield of a recently brought in Ford Taurus, and he taps the glass to get her attention. She looks up and nods when he points to his watch, swirling his finger in a wrap-it-up motion.

Returning to his desk, he grabs his cell again and dials Charlie's number at the station. Martha from the front desk answers and tells him Charlie's busy, but she'll take a message if he wants.

Jake doesn't want. He's tired and ready for this day to be over. He's also antsy, not knowing for sure if Charlie would call him if he heard from Bella. Normally he wouldn't question it, but none of this is normal, and Jake knows Charlie's not happy about the way he gave Bella the truck and let her take off.

He hears Leah come into the office and ends his call. He doesn't want to piss her off at the start of their night by flaunting anything to do with Bella in her face but doesn't see a way out of it.

Turning, he takes in how tired she looks and curses internally at the fact he originally wanted to make this a short day for her benefit. So much for good intentions.

"Long day. You gotta be beat."

She shrugs. "You finished?'

"Yeah. I ordered some dinner from that Thai place you like down the street. The one that's open late. We can pick it up on the way home. Sound good?"

"Sure. I'm starved."

"Let's get out of here."

He leads her out, locking up behind him. The night air is stifling, thick with the smell of hot rubber coming off the old tires stacked in the corner of the parking lot. Jake makes a move to put his hand on the small of Leah's back, opening the car door for her, but she sidesteps and gets in without help, avoiding him.

Not a great sign she's going to take what he has to say well.

Cranking on the AC once he gets the Rabbit running, Jake hesitates before making a right turn out of the lot.

"Thai place is the other way, Jake."

"Order won't be ready for another fifteen. I need to make a quick stop, check in with Charlie at the station."

Jake can practically hear Leah grind her teeth. She turns her head to stare out the window, saying nothing.

"Five minutes, okay?"

She doesn't answer.

"We can stop after and grab a six pack of Corona from that place across the street." Jake hates the watery beer, but he knows she likes it, and it's the least he can do.

"I don't want beer."

Jake nods, her tone telling him it'd be better not to argue, even if he thinks it's strange.

"I'm out of condoms, though." She says this dead pan, and Jake can't read her. They've been hit or miss as of late with the condoms, and tonight he sure as hell wasn't expecting action, so what she's trying to pull, he isn't sure.

He parks to the left of the station's back entrance. She's still not looking at him. "Hey." Jake puts a hand on her knee to get her attention, grateful when she doesn't pull away. After a reluctant second, she faces him, expression cold, not that he expected different. "I'm going to run in, talk to Charlie. Then you and I are going to do what we planned—go back to your place, kick our feet up, eat, relax, and _talk_. Like you wanted, okay? I'm not expecting more, if that's what that condom comment is about."

Leah shifts her purse off her lap to the floor at her feet, frowning a little. Jake tries to lighten the mood.

"I'm beat, so other than talking our shit out, the only thing I'm looking to do is hold you while we both crash for at least a good, solid eight hours. Now, if you, on the other hand, want more than that, we'll stop by the drug store, and I'll do my best to accommodate." He grins to let her know he's playing, and after a pause, she rolls her eyes but smiles, too.

"Go take care of what you need to, Jake."

He starts to get out of the car then changes his mind, suddenly not comfortable with her sitting out here on her own, especially seeing as how they're at the back of the station where the lights aren't bright like out front.

"Come in with me." The second he says it, he knows he did the right thing by the way the forced smile she was wearing turns genuine. He doesn't know why it was the right thing, given his only intent was to make sure she's safe, but he's never pretended to understand women. He's just glad she's not storming off, telling him to go screw himself.

Now, he just hopes Charlie doesn't take one look at him walking in with Leah and punch him in the mouth.

. . . . . .

Bella pulls the lasagna out of the oven and sets it on the stove top to cool. She has no idea why she's bothering to make Charlie's dinner for tomorrow. One look at her walking in the door with Edward in tow will ruin her father's appetite, she's sure. She's simply going through the motions.

The weak buzz from the wine has worn off. Now her stomach is queasy. She wipes sweat off her forehead. Heat from the oven has only made it hotter in the house. Edward hasn't turned the central air back on. Out of pure stubbornness, neither does she.

He's in the living room, settled on her couch with his sock feet on her coffee table and both his new laptops running. The TV's on, and a news anchor drones on about fluctuations in the stock market.

He looks comfortable and at home. It's too weird. She can't assimilate having him here in her little house, doing something so normal.

At the same time it comforts her.

She stares at the new laptop he bought her, thinking it looks out of place on her kitchen table. She doesn't even try to pronounce the name etched across the top. It's shiny and sleek, ultra thin, probably weighs next to nothing. Out of curiosity she opens it, and it comes to life instantly. She slides her fingertips across the lit keyboard, trying not to be impressed. It's too elaborate. She probably won't even be able to figure out how to use it.

She opens the browser, wishing it didn't comply so fast it makes her old laptop look like an antique. Her fingers tap out Pacific Northwest Trust in the Google search box. A flicker and the results are displayed, no waiting like her old machine, no freezing.

The list is long. She skims it. There are multitudes of results that don't interest her—dry business details she doesn't have time to dissect—but as her gaze moves down, more interesting results reveal themselves.

Pacific Northwest Trust doles out scholarships.

There are links to colleges and universities, élite private schools.

There's links to HMOs and banks and real estate companies.

Dozens of charitable organizations.

Over and over again she spots references to the initials M.A.

The M.A shelter for runaway girls.

The M.A shelter for homeless women.

The M.A centre for victims of childhood sexual abuse.

Bella looks in the direction of the living room. Edward is in the same place. She can hear him working the keyboard, the click of typing ridiculously fast. The news anchor has switched to spouting a litany of depressing news from the Middle East.

She adds Edward Masen to her search.

Nothing.

She adds Edward Cullen.

Nothing.

Google spits out its usual reams of inaccurate crap, none of which connect Pacific Northwest Trust with the Edward currently sitting on her couch.

Her fingers hover over the keys. She tries to think...

"You won't find my name linked with PNT."

Bella nearly jumps out of her skin. His silent way of moving and the speed he uses is eerie. She should've known better than to do this with him so close. Feeling guilty, she belatedly snaps the laptop closed.

"I was just..."

"Being a curious lamb?"

She turns to find him right there, so close there's barely room for air between them.

"I'm very careful," he says, reaching out to run his fingers down her cheek. His touch trails to his favourite spot, resting against her rapidly ticking pulse. "It wouldn't do to have my name popping up all over the place. I value my anonymity and privacy."

He suddenly spins, and Bella finds herself sitting on his lap on one of her kitchen chairs. Dizzy, she gasps and grabs his shirt for balance, though his arm around her waist provides more than enough support.

"So tell me, little beauty. Did you find what you were looking for?"

. . . . . .

The inside of the station is quiet. Jake spots Embry standing by a bank of beat-up vending machines, talking to a woman and a teenage girl. The woman looks pissed off, the girl's eyes watery and red like she's been crying. She's got her arms crossed over her chest. Add in the brown hair and eyes, and she reminds Jake a lot of Bella at that age. She could practically pass as a younger sister.

"I want something done about this." The woman clutches a Styrofoam cup, directing her attitude at Embry, who's got his cop face on—all helpful attitude and placating demeanour.

"I promise you, ma'am. Chief Swan and I are on this."

Jake notices Charlie's office door is closed at the same exact time it swings open. Charlie starts out then spots Jake. His gaze skates over him and lands on Leah, a deep V forming between his eyes before he quickly schools his expression into a blank canvas.

"Jake. What can I do for you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake sees Embry usher the woman and girl out the side doors before he looks at Leah. "Take a seat over there. I'll just be a minute," he says, knowing he needs a closed door between her and Charlie. The Chief might be keeping his feelings from showing on his face, but his hand is currently curled around the top of his empty holster, tapping a distinct rhythm into the aged leather. A sure sign Charlie isn't pleased.

"Charlie. You got a minute?" He asks, but he's already passing Charlie and entering his office before he can say no or turn him away.

Charlie closes the door behind him a little harder than necessary, and Jake spins to face him. The bland expression is gone, and he was right—Charlie is pissed.

"Jesus Christ, Jake. What the hell are you doing here with her?"

"I'm giving her a ride home."

"That doesn't answer my damn question."

"Didn't hear from you today. I figured the best way to catch you would be to stop in. I didn't want Leah sitting outside by herself."

Charlie huffs out a hard breath and moves to his desk, flipping a folder shut. Jake catches Mike Newton's name and the words _possible sexual assault _before the cover closes. His spine tightens, and his skin flushes hot.

"What is that?"

Charlie closes his eyes briefly, and Jake notices he looks beat, complexion on the gray side. When he turns and leans against the desk, he crosses his arms over his chest before looking at Jake like he's trying to figure out what to say.

"I saw Newton's name, Charlie."

Charlie runs a hand over his moustache, his gaze direct. "You're not a cop, Jake. I can't talk to you about this."

"If this has anything to do with Bella..."

Charlie pushes off the desk. "I need coffee. You want one?"

"What? No."

"All right. I'll be back in a minute." Charlie wraps his knuckles against the folder once, leaves it on the desk, and walks out.

Jake has the report in his hand before Charlie closes the door. His blood gets a whole hell of a lot hotter as he reads.

. . . . . .

Bella tries not to sag into Edward. It's hard. "I don't know _what_ I was looking for," she tells him. "But can you blame me for being curious? You're a walking, talking contradiction, and I'm just trying to understand you...this..._us_."

"So, you admit there is an us?" Edward smiles, and though it has that mocking edge to it, there's something more there, too.

"I admit you make me feel things I don't understand," Bella answers. The wine, the heat, her fatigue, they conspire against her and loosen her tongue. "And you seem like you want me to think the worst of you. You admit what you are. You say you're a monster, and you confess that you kill. You say you have no soul. Then you tell me you only...feed...off men who are evil. It doesn't fit. With the exception of Mike, who was a threat, you haven't hurt anyone else the entire time you've been here, as far as I know."

He doesn't answer.

"You haven't." It's easy to say. She isn't sure why she knows so definitively, but she does.

He inclines his head—a slight nod, nothing more.

She suddenly wants him to engage, to give her answers she can understand. She exhales slowly and then rushes her words together, afraid she'll lose her nerve and choke them back down.

"You take over my life and order me around, telling me I'm yours like you own me. Then you spend hours making me feel...so good it's crazy." She ignores the flush of added heat in her face, continuing as if what she said didn't embarrass her. "I run away, and you let me come _home_, make sure my former boss does right by me, take me shopping. You fuss over whether I have food and whether I'm comfortable. You buy me crazy expensive stuff I don't want. You touch me like you're afraid I'll break or disappear, like I'm something precious, even when you're trying to control everything I do. One minute you're a total vampire, and the next, you're acting like a..._decent guy_. You confuse the hell out of me."

She's panting slightly by the time she's done. His arms are cool around her but not tight. She reaches out and drags the laptop on the table closer, opening it. The list Google compiled for her instantly blinks back into existence. Bella runs her finger over the mouse pad and clicks on the link for the M.A. shelter for runaway girls. The site opens, and she points at it.

"This doesn't fit the image of a cold-hearted monster, Edward."

. . . . . .

Edward barely glances at the website for the foundation that now runs hundreds of varied shelters across the country. He designed it himself, after all. He resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, a human habit from centuries past that haunts him like the ghost it is. Frustration is a rare feeling for him, at least it was, before her.

He strokes a hand down Isabella's spine, noting the way the fabric clings damply to her skin, wondering why discomfort is preferable to using the gift he's given.

She looks at him, one lovely eyebrow arched high in question and challenge. He's torn between the urge to laugh or shake her. His lamb is trying so hard to connect dots that will allow her to humanize him. He understands why she feels the need to do so and struggles with the fact he must once more disabuse her of her false notions. She cannot know the significance of the initials M.A. or understand the inadequate measures he undertakes to atone for the innocent life he stole.

He's not willing to explain it to her, either. There's an odd clenching deep in his gut at the thought, a swelling that rises into his throat, a distant memory of the sensation of nausea.

Edward closes the laptop, leaning back against the chair. Keeping one arm around her waist, he raises the other so he can place one hand over her heart. She showered and changed earlier today after finishing her gardening. The blouse she wears is sleeveless, the buttons down the front undone by several in deference to the heat, allowing him an expanse of bared skin to touch. Her little red heart beats hard against his palm. Nerves, excitement, life. He slides his hand lower and deftly undoes another button, then another.

"You continue to try and resist what you feel. Search endlessly for reasons to either fight what you want or justify it. What you perceive as contradiction in my nature is simply one and the same."

She reaches up as though to still his hand, but her weak grip on his wrist is as conflicted as the rest of her. The material of her blouse gaps open, revealing the scalloped edges of lace on her bra. He glides his fingers across the skin, flirting with the lace, then dips lower, opening the last few buttons, pushing fabric to the side. His arm around her waist lowers as he allows himself to touch her thigh, skate his fingers along the edge of cut-off jeans so short they've been testing his sanity from the moment she donned them. The fringe tickles her skin, making the muscle beneath jump slightly in reaction. He slides his fingers under, stopping just a hairsbreadth away from her secret heat.

Isabella shivers all over and turns to press her forehead to his, lips close enough to kiss—an offering, though she doesn't close the gap.

Edward breathes out and feels her breathe in. "Let go of all your silly, human expectations of how you think I should be. Accept what I am. I'll never fit your mold. I doubt you'd find me anywhere near as compelling if I did, Isabella. It's not what you crave, what you need. Deep down you know this as well as I do. Normal bores you. Decent doesn't make your blood race through your veins. Predictable doesn't make you cry out until you're hoarse, and limp, and utterly..._sated_."

He sweeps his fingers in to touch her fully, the snug fabric covering her no impediment. She's not wearing underclothes. There's nothing between his fingers and her already damp, hot flesh. All day she's been denying herself, holding back from him. He's noticed her growing discomfort, the darts of pain that make her breathing hitch. He isn't sure if it's the mating bond between them punishing her for her refusal to capitulate and accept him, but he's felt it, too—hunger and want and unresolved aching. He suffers with her.

His touch moves from her heart to her throat, gripping firm, finding that sweet spot where her pulse grounds him. He growls as she shifts against his touch, his unmoving fingers between her legs frustrating her, making her moan the sweetest little sound, all desire and plea.

Her eyes are still closed. "Look at me, Isabella."

Lashes flutter; her lips part on a stuttering exhale, but she obeys.

"You fight so hard, but I touch you and you melt. All day you've needed this, needed me. You're strung so tight if I move my fingers even the slightest bit, you'll come."

She whimpers and he smiles, brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth. "Do you think you're the only one who suffers for your stubbornness? Do you think I don't feel pain, my beautiful little torturer?"

She tries to shake her head, but his grip on her throat stops her. "For every second of this day that you kept yourself from me, I've burned. Watching you walk through this house wearing nearly nothing, all this beautiful skin bared to me, smelling like sin and sex and fucking sustenance. You deny me every time you deny yourself. Worse, you make me watch you suffer, knowing all the while exactly what you need and being helpless to give it because you insist on playing this damn game."

Muscles held too tense all day begin to shake as she whimpers again, back trying to arch, so beautiful in her frustrated agony. "It's not a game," she says, brow furrowing, breathing quick, a study in contradiction herself.

Edward laughs low in his throat. "Isn't it? I think you've made it a game of wills, but you're playing it all wrong, Isabella. The only way you win is if you concede defeat."

She bites her lip, still trembling, and he groans, wanting to do the same, to taste her heightened essence as she lets go against his hand. "Give in to me, little beauty." His fingers move, just the slightest fraction of an inch. She shudders, panting softly and biting harder on that lip.

Still she fights, but he won't give up. He wants inside her in every depraved way imaginable. He'll gladly play dirty if he has to.

"You want me to ease you? Then ask me for it. If you won't give me what I want, _beg me_ for what you need."

Her pulse is wild under his thumb, and she's gotten so slick under his stationary touch, he knows she must hurt.

"Beg, Isabella," he breathes.

"Please," she says, so quiet yet so intense.

It's enough, for now. His fingers pulse, just once, and she shatters completely, shuddering beautifully again and again as he lets her work herself against his fingers. Watching her come is delicious, igniting a thousand desires all of which pale in comparison to the simple pleasure of giving her a moment of bliss.

When she's done, he nips at her bottom lip, letting her blood gloss over perfect pink with luscious crimson before he licks it away slowly.

"Bend to me, lamb, and I'll bend to you. I'll be the man you want."

She gasps as his tongue flicks lightly over the tiny puncture. Drawing back, he slips his hand from around her throat, noting with pleasure the slight redness of her skin in the shape of his hand that will quickly fade away. He moves his touch to the back of her neck and up into the messy knot she bound it in, taking a handful of hair and pulling gently, forcing her neck to arch with the pressure. All the better to watch her pulse, wild from her release, slowly ebbing now.

"The man?" She whispers her question, pink tongue darting out to touch the place tingling from his bite, sarcastic and perhaps even gloating. She did win this round, after all.

Edward smiles, leaning close, running his nose over her throat. "You're so determined to find good in me. When it comes to you, perhaps there is. Call it a contradiction if you like. Just know this. The man and the vampire are one and the same, Isabella. I'll gladly move mountains to please you, but I'll just as happily commit atrocities to keep you. Never doubt it."

He nips lightly, not breaking skin, then lets go of her hair, watching her blink and struggle to absorb. Then he rises with her in his arms, carrying her to the living room and her old yet surprisingly comfortable sofa.

His gorgeous lamb needs to be held. She's exhausted herself. And since he intends to make this the last round she wins, atrocities will have to wait.

. . . . . .


End file.
